Bean An Gcroíthe
by Aoife129
Summary: From the moment they were born, they just had their own way". . . Annabelle wasn't the only one who knew her sons were different. Follow the story of the Saints from the point of view of the girl they call "woman of our hearts"
1. Everyone's Irish Tonight

Bean An Gchroíthe

--Disclaimer: All obviously recognizable characters and quotes belong to Troy Duffy--

--Preface: A Note From Aoife--

Warning: This is mostly just me rambling about writing the story. It is not necessary to read, and I will not be broken hearted if you choose to skip directly to the first chapter. This is simply to preemptively answer any questions readers might have about inspiration or certain references. Also, it may not answer all questions; if you have any, please feel free to ask.

I think, like most other devout fans, I have seen this movie a hundred times or more, both without and with the commentary by Troy Duffy. In listening to him speak about what he went through to create this work of art, I can't help but respect the man, as I'm sure most of you do also. What's more is that he impresses me as the kind of man who, despite what he might say himself, is very down to earth, very humble: the kind of guy I'd want to randomly sit down next to at a bar and have a drink with because he's fascinating, but doesn't want anything from you and expects you to be nothing but yourself. And for that reason, I graciously thank him for creating such amazing and memorable characters, with whom I've had the pleasure of working these past few months to put this story together. It was, in fact, something that Troy said in the commentary of the movie that sparked the idea for this. During the scene in the Yakavetta mansion, he mentions that he had Conner remain upright in his chair and Murphy down on the floor with Rocco to show the difference between the brothers. That thought stuck with me. Throughout the film, we see these two men who are most definitely twins in many of the little things that they do similarly. But we, as a society, have greatly overestimated how alike twins tend to be. Every set of twins I have known in my lifetime have small habits that are the same, but they generally also have completely different personalities. I knew immediately that I wanted to write about this, to further what Troy attempted to do through subtleties in the movie. But the problem came in finding how to convey their differences while still keeping them the twins we all know and love. Plus, as a writer, I have found that what usually comes out of me the best are stories about young women, as that is what I am; like many, I write what I know. For this reason, I had to come up with a story from the perspective of a young woman that readers would be able to accept; thus began my crafting of the character of Líadan MacRory. In order to be affiliated with the Saints, she'd have to be strong and smart, somewhat hardened by life, and yet still show emotion. She didn't necessarily have to be beautiful, but you'd have to be drawn to her in some way. Eventually, she told me the best way to link her to the Saints, but I won't spoil it for all you who might not pick up on it until it's bluntly stated in the story. I will say, however, that she's grown up with the boys. Because of that, she clearly sees the differences between them; she doesn't meld them into one person the way most others who are looking at them from a distance would. And so, we follow the story from her point of view, seeing just how dissimilar the McManus brothers really are as well as different sides of the boys themselves. I hope this does justice to the idea Troy Duffy originally looked for when he created the Saints, and, of course, I hope you all enjoy it.

As a side note, there has been another story posted on this site that has a similar basic idea. I would like to squash any thoughts that this is in any way copying that, and would encourage you to read that story as well. "An Deirfiúr" is a very well written and much different take on the background/future of the boys. Kudos to you, Goddess of Rage, and, in the immortal words of Rocco, "Don't ever stop!"

--Everyone's Irish Tonight--

A/N: Translations of all Irish Gaelic (or otherwise) phrases will appear at the end of each chapter for all you who don't understand, but would like to know what is being said. Pronunciations are given to the best of my knowledge, namely, that is the way I have heard it pronounced. If there is a pronunciation not given that you would like, send me a message; do likewise if you have some real background and have heard it pronounced differently. Though, please keep in mind, there are various dialects of the language I'm including. Also, dialog is written in such a way that conveys the differences in accents. If it becomes too confusing, let me know, and I can write it plainly.

She slipped her boots on her feet and her rosary around her neck, then headed out the window. The metal stairs of the fire escape clattered as she headed down toward the alley. On the last landing, she paused as an older woman called out to her. "Líadan, why don't ya ever use the proper stairs?"

"'Cause they wouldn't be nearly as much fun, Mrs. MacNamara," she smiled back at the woman.

"Come here, Child." Líadan approached the open window, and the woman handed her ceramic dish covered in aluminum foil. "It'll get cold soon, but you have Brannon warm that up fer ya fer supper ta-night."

"Thanks, Mrs. MacNamara." She accepted the dish, kissed the old woman on the cheek, and tucked it into her messenger bag. Mrs. MacNamara pulled Líadan's dark wool P-coat closed and buttoned it.

"It's still cold out, Young Lady; yer gonna get sick."

"Aye, Ma'am."

"And ya be careful ta-night. Ya know how crazy this town gets on St. Patty's." Mrs. MacNamara briefly brushed the hair from the right side of Líadan's face, then pulled it back and smoothed it to hide the girl's cheek. Líadan smiled weakly and nodded. "And make sure ya get to mass ta-day."

"Aye, Ma'am."

"Alright, go on." She kissed the girl's left cheek and sent her on her way. Líadan stepped onto the retractable ladder and felt it lower to the familiar _CLINK_ of the metal on the pavement.

Her pace down the alley was as fast as she could make her legs go without running. It was March, and like Mrs. MacNamara said, it was still cold out; it was South Boston, after all. She pulled the dish the woman had given her out of her bag and uncovered it; three hunks of corned beef cooked with green onions, cabbage, and potatoes smiled up at her. She ate one of the potatoes with her fingers, savoring the old woman's cooking. She slowed her pace and recovered the dish. To her right she saw a man asleep on the street, covering himself as best as he could with his thin, tattered jacket. She knelt down next to him, set the dish by his face, kissed her finger, and lightly touched his cheek. He stirred slightly, but didn't wake. "Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh, Kevin," she whispered, the left corner of her mouth turning upward. Then she resumed her beeline down the alley. She came to a busy street, cars and people whizzing by her. A few more steps, and she pushed open the door of a pub, "The Faerie Queen" intricately decorating the front in bright blue, green, and gold; she knew it had been hand-painted only because she'd done it herself.

Cary just about attacked her as she walked through the doorway. "There's m' girl!" She nearly disappeared in his embrace.

"Oh, if only ya were twenty years younger, Cary." After finally escaping the man, Líadan made her way up to the bar, shed her jacket and bag onto a stool, and hopped onto the counter. She tucked one leg up underneath the other, turning her body so that she could see both men in the room at once. Brannon set down the glasses he was carrying from the kitchen and kissed her left cheek. "Is he helpin' ya tend ta-night?" she asked, laughing as the 45 year old man sang along with the radio into the handle of the broom he was holding.

"Nah, Dylan is; I just can't get rid of 'im," Brannon laughed back. Líadan's gaze fell on the gray haired man at the other end of the room. She understood why he didn't want to leave; things had been hard on him since Molly--his wife of 22 years--had passed away the previous fall.

"Truck's here," Líadan said absently. The delivery truck pulled up into the alley, and the driver came in through the back door. Brannon still wondered how she did that.

"Cary," he called to the old man. "Ya wanna give me a hand with this?" Cary put down his broom and followed Brannon out the back. Líadan picked up a bag of pretzels and a wet towel from behind the bar and began wiping the large oaken tables and filling the empty snack bowls. She heard the door open, but she didn't look up from her task. If the person entering was staff, he would simply join the other men behind the bar; if he was a customer, he would either realize that they weren't open yet, or he would be a regular, and therefore, welcome to hang out for a while. But something about this one made her stop; it almost felt familiar.

A memory flashed in his mind as he stared at her; a brunette looked up at him and smiled before running into his open arms. This girl was not the brunette, but she was the one he had come to see. He didn't have to see her face to know it was Líadan. She'd noticeably heard him walk in, but was blatantly ignoring him. She stopped for a second, as though sensing he was there. The blond sheet of her hair--though only to her shoulders--covered her face, but the word "Spes" tattooed on her left hand told him she was who he thought she was. He stood just inside the door, deciding what to do, and finally, closed the gap between them. Across the table, her jaw clenched; she knew who it was now. "Come on, Líadan," he begged. "Ya can't be mad at me ferever." His thick Irish accent matched her own.

"Watch me."

His eyes fell to the Claddagh on her right forefinger pointing toward him--the ring he and his brother had given her on her thirteenth birthday--and tried to make small talk, anything to get her to pay attention to him. "I find it hard ta believe yer still on the market."

"Yeah, well, most guys are turned off by this." She pushed the blond hair out of her face, finally looking him in the eyes. A slightly jagged scar carved its way down her right cheek from the corner of her eye to her jaw line. Her midnight-colored eyes seared him with blue flames.

"Líadan," he started sympathetically, but she interrupted him.

"I don't want to hear it, Conner. Nothin' ya say's gonna make this go away 'r bring 'er back."

"We miss 'er too, y'know!"

"Sure ya do," she spat back coldly.

"Aye, we do."

"Well, ya got a funny way 'a showin' it, not botherin' ta come ta the funeral! Ya didn't even call me back!"

Brannon came back out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was. "Are ya alright, Lee?" He stopped just behind her, glaring at Conner.

"Fine, Brannon; he was just leavin'." She didn't take her eyes off Conner, her flaming irises quickly turning to ice.

"Why don't ya come down ta McGinty's ta-night 'n have a drink with us," he offered. "It_ is _St. Patty's."

"I have ta _work_ ta-night." Her volume had decreased, but the tone was still there. He nodded, his face showing his disappointment.

"Love ya, A Stór," he added just before turning around and leaving. Brannon laid a hand on her shoulder as the two watched the door close behind him.

Just outside, Murphy took one last drag from his cigarette and dropped the smoldering butt onto the pavement. Smoke escaped his mouth as he stamped out the butt, and Conner joined him on the street. He looked at his twin expectantly. "She's still mad," Conner reported.

"D'ya blame 'er?" Murphy asked.

"No," Conner admitted. "Ya know, you probably shoulda been the one ta go in there."

"I'm not the one she's mad at." Murphy had him there; he could only nod, staring off into the distance, in response.

Without a word, the two stepped off simultaneously and headed down toward the large Catholic church they'd come to frequent.

Inside, Brannon kissed Líadan's left cheek again. "Go on; mass'll be startin' soon; ya'll not want ta miss it."

"What about you?"

"I'll finish things up here; we got plenty 'a time fer ya ta go. And I don't wanna be gettin' an earful from yer Ma when she hears ya missed church." She smiled up at her boss and grabbed her coat, leaving her bag.

The organ played as she entered the church. It was a big turnout today, but then, she had expected it would be. She touched her fingers to the cold water, then crossed herself before stepping over the threshold. Up ahead, she could see the twins kneeling with their rosaries in their hands. Normally, she came to a different mass to avoid them, but today was a holiday. Not wanting to interact with them, she chose a pew a few rows back, crossed herself again, and sat on the outside edge. She reached out and lowered the prayer bench, pulling out her own rosary and kneeling on the padded beam. _Lord, I thank You for m' life, for Ma, who gave it t' me, and for Kevin, who gave it back t' me. Thank You for the time I had with Bridget, who is no doubt Your most beautiful angel. Save m' family, both blood and those You've put in m' way. Teach me to be patient, and help me to be strong. A shepherd I shall be, for Thee my Lord, for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand, that m' feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. And I shall flow a river forth unto Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti._ Her eyes opened, and she sat back on the wooden bench. A priest dressed in bright colors moved to the podium set up at the altar, and the congregation stood. "Our Father," he began, "who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, now and forever; Amen." The church resounded the, "It is true," and took their seats. The Monsignor took the podium, dismissing the younger priest.

"Thank you, Father Macklepenny, for coming all the way across town to be our guest speaker. I hope you found our little parish to your liking." Líadan watched as the twins stood and started up the center aisle. No one in the congregation acted like it was out of the ordinary. Though Líadan had never actually seen them do this here, she wasn't surprised by it; she _had_ grown up with them. She couldn't help but smile a little when she saw the reaction of Father Macklepenny. He obviously didn't understand the boys' need to make a grand exit. "And I am reminded on this holy day of the sad story of Kitty Geneviese. As you all may remember, a long time ago, almost thirty years ago, this poor soul cried out for help time and time again, but no person answered her calls." The boys kissed the feet of the large crucifix looming behind the Monsignor, and headed back down the aisle. "Though many saw, no one so much as called the police. They all just watched as Kitty was being stabbed to death in broad daylight. They watched as her assailant walked away." She wouldn't let her eyes lift, but she could feel the twins approaching her. Indiscernibly, Murphy raised a hand and brushed her cheek as he passed. So, at least _he_ had known she was here. Her eyes closed, and her jaw clenched; she wouldn't let herself cry_. Lord, protect them ta-night_. "Now, we must all fear evil men, but there is another kind of evil which we must fear most. And that is, the _indifference_ of _good men_."

"Aye," she breathed, clutching her rosary.

Translations:

Líadan = Irish name, pronounced "LEE-den"

"Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh" = Irish, "Happy St. Patrick's Day"

"Spes" = Latin, "Hope"

"A Stór" = Irish, a term of endearment, "My Dear"

"In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti" = Latin, "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit" (I shouldn't have to include that one, but I figured I would just to alleviate any possible confusion.)

And for those of you who have lived under a rock all your lives: Aye = "Yes" or other word of agreement commonly used by sailors or those of Celtic descent


	2. Thanks For Comin' Out

--Thanks For Comin' Out--

--Thanks For Comin' Out--

The alarm clock screamed at her until she smacked it into submission; she'd forgotten to turn it off last night. She peeked out from under her blanket cocoon; the sun was already in the sky, assaulting her eyes. Groggily, she climbed out into the cold air, the uncarpeted floor icy even through her socks. She ran over to the toilet, the ceramic seat also frozen from the cold air of the night; unfortunately being a squatter in a building of legal tenants meant no heat. She was lucky she even got running water. In as few steps as possible, she crossed the room again and dove for the bed, still warm from her own body heat. When she pulled on her tattered jeans, she was thankful she'd been able to afford long underwear this year. She pulled a T-shirt on over the long sleeved thermal she already had on and added a second pair of socks to her feet. Her boots and P-coat came last, and then she headed out to the fire escape.

This time when she came to the final landing, she climbed in the window, closing it behind her. Mrs. MacNamara was waiting for her, an extra cup of coffee already on the table. Líadan sat, added cream and sugar to the coffee, and simply held it for a minute, letting the warmth seep into her body through her palms. "Rough night, Sweetheart?" Mrs. MacNamara smiled.

Líadan smiled back through bleary eyes. "Aye."

"How many this year?"

"Eight and two car bombs." The amount referred to the number of shots of whiskey Líadan had had to complete at the end of her shift in order to get Brady, one of her regulars, to leave her alone.

"How many did Caoimhe get away with?"

"Only three, the lightweight," Líadan scoffed. Her fellow waitress was a self-proclaimed disgrace to her Irish heritage. Mrs. MacNamara stood, left her coffee on the table and retrieved a bottle of Ibuprofen for Líadan, who shed her coat and quickly swallowed three of the little brown pills. Then she made her way to the kitchen; the old woman actually paid her rent and gas bills. "Y'know," she called into the other room where Líadan was still nursing her coffee, "I don't know why ya don't just move down here, Love. You're more than welcome, and I have an extra bed. It'd be a lot better for ya than that mattress on the floor ya got outta the dumpster."

"I worked hard ta get that thing smellin' decent," Líadan argued. "I'm not just gonna throw it away again." She took a sip of the hot liquid; it scalded her tongue and the roof of her mouth, but even that was better than being cold. "Besides, I'm not stayin' here long." Out of sight, Mrs. MacNamara smiled. That had been the phrase Líadan and her sister uttered when they'd first moved into the loft upstairs nearly three years ago; the girls had been "just passing through" on their way to New York City. Líadan wanted to sing on Broadway, and Bridget was going to work on Wall Street. Both of the women now knew those dreams would never happen, but they still entertained the joke for Bridget's sake.

Líadan turned on the TV and set it to the midday news. Three cars had been ruined by vandals, two houses had burned down, and the anchor wasn't even reporting the number of people hospitalized. Líadan couldn't help but smile; typical St. Patrick's Day. The weatherman predicted more snow for later that day, which really meant that it was going to get warmer. Just as he sent the feed back to the main anchors, Mrs. MacNamara brought in two plates each holding two eggs, a small mound of shredded potatoes and a slice of homemade toast. She set one in front of Líadan, then sat down herself to eat. Líadan didn't argue anymore; the old woman insisted on feeding the girl. According to Mrs. MacNamara it was because she needed someone to take care of since Mr. MacNamara was gone. But Líadan was fairly sure it was because she understood the pain of losing someone very close to her. "D' ya have ta work?"

"Nah," Líadan replied. "Brannon's closed the bar ta-night. But Shane wanted me ta come down 'n translate a bit fer 'im again."

"He payin' ya for all these translations?"

"Well, I use my fluency in languages to help 'im, and he gets the other cops ta forget that I'm livin' upstairs illegally."

"What language is it this time?"

"Italian again; it's been hard tryin' ta find evidence ta connect these murders back ta Pappa Joe Yakavetta." The older woman nodded and allowed Líadan to finish her breakfast. "Can't say I mind hangin' around the station, though. That Detective Greenly's a hoot." Without asking, Mrs. MacNamara poured a little more coffee into Líadan's cup.

"Anythin' interestin' on the news ta-day?"

"Not really; just the aftermath 'a last night."

"I'm just glad ya made it home safe."

"Dylan walked me again," she explained.

"Good."

Líadan looked at her watch. "Alright, I have ta get goin'." She stood, poured coffee into a thermos, and pulled on her coat. Then she dropped her plate into the sink, kissed Mrs. MacNamara, and leaped out the window.

She walked into the station and was greeted by several officers, some of whom she'd seen at "The Faerie Queen" last night. She was allowed to walk straight up to Detective Duffy's desk without being stopped; most knew who she was, or at least what she was doing there. "Whadda ya hear, Shane?" she asked the man.

"Hey, Lee; got a new case this moahnin'."

"Ya still need me ta hang around?"

"Oh, yeah," he affirmed. "I just can't stay back theah with ya this time. Almost the whole depahtment's wohking on this one." He stood and began walking back to one of the conference rooms with her.

"I'm tellin' ya," Greenly's voice floated to them from the main room. "I still think those guys had ta be fuckin' huge. How the hell else was that guy crushed like that?" _Typical Greenly_. Líadan couldn't resist this one.

"Maybe the guy fell on 'im," she turned and called back to him. He just sneered at her as Duffy led her into the office. She took a seat, and he handed her a yellow legal pad of a phone conversation, transcribed to the best of the listener's ability. This was the most fun part: trying to figure out what words the person actually heard. She'd once asked Duffy why she couldn't just listen to the taps herself.

"It's fah yahr own protection, Sweetheaht. Ya could get in big trouble if ya evah recognized one 'a these voices awn the street." Now, he just thanked her for her help and made sure she had everything she needed. "I'm not supposed to do this, but I'm gonna leave the dooah open a crack in case ya need anything, alright?"

"Thanks, Shane."

He went back out to his desk and sat down just as Agent Smecker roared into the room. "First of all, I'd like to thank whichever of you donut-munching, barrel-assed, pud-pulling, sissies leaked this to the press_._ That's just what we need now, some sensational story in the papers making these guys out to be super heroes triumphing over evil. Let me squash the rumors now; these guys aren't heroes." _Ooh, someone's not happy_. Líadan didn't know if he could see her through the window, but she could see him, and he was a little scary. "They are two ordinary men who were put in an extraordinary situation, and just happened to come out on top." His cheeks were sunken in, and his blue eyes were excessively large; his light brown hair hung in long waves off the top of his head, and there was something funny about the way he stood. _Probably gay._ He looked toward the glass, and she felt as though he was looking straight through her. She quickly dropped her eyes back to the paper and began translating again. But she continued to listen to him, and after a few seconds he drew her gaze again. "Yes, nothing from our far reaching computer system has turned up diddly on these two. All we know is what we found out from the neighbors. And the general consensus is . . . they're angels." Líadan laughed a little, more so at the motion he'd made than the words he'd said. "But angels don't kill, and we got two bodies in the morgue that look like they've been _serial crushed by some huge friggin' guy_." She smiled; so, he _had_ met Greenly.

"Ah we considerin' these guys ahmed and dangerous?" Chaffey asked.

"Well, not armed; if they'd had guns, they would've used them. But dangerous? Very."

"What makes ya think they'ah dangerous?" Mitchell protested. "I mean, maybe they'ah just protecting each othah."

"Hey, look, I'm not saying one way or the other. Just be careful, and go by the protocol on this one. It's grunt police work's gonna bring this one in." She looked up from her work again as two figures--one leaning heavily on the other--made their way into the station. She almost jumped up when she saw the sanguine bandages around Conner's wrists, but she stopped herself. As much as she loved them, if they were the two the officers had been discussing--and they more than likely were--she wanted nothing to do with the trouble they'd gotten themselves into this time.

"These guys ah miles away by now," Greenly interjected. "But if ya want to beat ya head against a wall, then heah's what yoah lookin fah. They'ah scahed, like two little bunny rabbits. Anything in a unifoahm oah flashin' lights is gonna spook 'em, so the only thing we can do is put a potato on a string and drag it through the streets 'a South Boston, thanks fah comin' out."

"You'd probably have better luck with beer." Líadan laughed and shook her head as Murphy responded.

"Aye, ya would," Conner agreed.

"Hey, Greenly," Smecker called smugly. "Onion bagel, cream cheese." Líadan liked the way this guy did things. Smecker took the boys back to one of the interrogation rooms as Líadan hid in the office and finished up her translations. She dropped the legal pad on Duffy's desk and headed out the door with quick good-byes to a few of the officers.

**Translations:**

**Caoimhe Irish name, pronounced "KEE-va"**


	3. Shepherds We Shall Be

--Shepherds We Shall Be--

--Shepherds We Shall Be--

Líadan writhed in her bed. The air was cold, but she was drenched in sweat. Outside, lightning flashed, and thunder roared; raindrops assailed the windows and roof. Every now and then, a drop found its way inside through the cracks. As the rain picked up, so did the amount of leaks. She flailed right, left, right, then she curled up into a ball. In her mind, voices resounded_. _

_This poor soul cried out _

_They watched as her assailant simply walked away _

_The indifference of good men_

_Nobody wanted to get involved_

_Nobody . . ._

_Whosoever shed man's blood, by man may his blood be shed. For in the image of God, made He man_.

Thunder clashed again, waking her from her nightmare, but not from her trance. Her chest was pulled toward the ceiling, and she supported herself on her arms, drops of rain falling onto her forehead. Her pulse quickened, and her breath faltered as images flashed in her mind.

She saw the twins in the same position as herself, water dripping on their heads. But they were in a cement room, with bars . . . a jail cell.

She saw her mother crying, holding a picture of a man with thick, dark hair and a beard_. Have I seen him before? _Then she threw it to the ground, smashing the frame.

She saw Conner and Murphy when they were seven years old. Murphy held a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket, and Conner was showing one wrapped in green to an older woman. "That's Murph's and this'ne's mine . . . which one is this?" he turned to ask his mother.

She saw the dark haired man from the picture pointing a gun at a man on his knees. "And teeming with souls shall it ever be." This, she _had_ seen before; this man was in the dreams of her childhood that would send her running for Murphy in the middle of the night.

She saw herself when she was five years old. Murphy sat with her as she cried. "Ya can't play with the big boys, Mo Chroí, but I'll be back later, I promise. And then we can play whatever ya want."

She saw the older man again, a gun in each hand and a cigar in his mouth. There was a whole room full of other men with guns. He ran through, bullets sailing, and finished at the other end of the room, the only one left standing.

She saw Bridget and herself in high school, walking down the hall. A dark haired boy knocked the books from a blond boy's hands and pushed him against the wall. Líadan pushed the dark haired boy in return. And Bridget comforted the blond boy as her sister fought the other.

She saw a tattoo parlor; she was sixteen. Bridget patiently waited, and each of the boys nursed their hands, Conner's freshly given "Truth" and Murphy's "Justice," as Líadan's received "Hope."

She saw an airport. Tears streamed down the faces of both girls. Conner held Bridget tightly to him, and Murphy knelt before Líadan. "Doesn't matter where I go; I'll always be with ya . . . always."

She saw the boys again, in the same room as before; they looked at each other. "Destroy all that which is evil," Conner recited.

"So that which is good may flourish," Murphy finished.

She saw a man in dark clothes. "I said, give it here!" He pulled at Bridget's left forefinger, trying to get the Claddagh ring off of it.

"Titim gan éirí ort!" she spat. Líadan struggled to get to her sister, but her arms were held fast. The man gave another yank on Bridget's finger, then thrust his left hand into her stomach. Líadan screamed, and her vision blurred with rage. She flailed violently until the other men let go. She dove for the man who had stabbed her twin; she would make him pay if it cost her her own life. But he was bigger than her, and despite her adrenaline rush, the three men eventually overtook her, pinning her to the ground. The man with the knife dragged it down the right side of her face, tearing into her cheek.

"Now, you're gonna be a good girl and enjoy this." His breath smelled of cheap vodka. He reached a hand down and began undoing the button of her pants. Her shouts echoed back to her in the dark alley, and her every muscle strained to push him off. Suddenly, his head jolted forward a bit, and he stopped smiling. His eyes went blank, and his body started falling forward. She braced herself, but a hand reached out and caught his shoulder before he crushed her. The other hand grabbed the knife and thrust it into another man's neck. Blood that was not her own sprayed Líadan's face as she forced herself out from under the unconscious man. Her ears heard a set of footsteps disappear down the alley. A hand extended to her, grimy and clearly unwashed. She was afraid, but she placed her own hand within it, and her savior helped her to her feet. Looking at the body of her now dead sister, she faltered. The homeless man caught her up and set off, carrying her to the police station.

She saw herself on a pay phone, crying. "We're not here, so leave a message at the beep," came Conner's voice.

"Murph, Conner, she's gone; Bridget's . . . gone, she's . . . I'm--I'm takin' 'er ashes back home ta be buried with the family. Funeral's on the 30th . . ." She tried several times to make more come out, but nothing would, so she hung up the receiver.

_Always_ echoed in her head as her vision went black.

Her head dropped back to the pillow, and her lungs screamed for air. She managed to sit up, and nearly vomited, her head whirling. She felt empty inside, as though all of her organs had dissolved. Gathering her wet blanket as best she could, she held on to the wall and stood. Stumbling, she made it to the door and started down the stairs she never used, holding onto the railing with every remaining ounce of strength; if it buckled, so would she. After an eternity of controlled falling she felt her way to a door. The mat before her feet read "Fáilte." Weakly, she raised a hand and pounded on the door. As it opened, her legs barely carried her weight. "Líadan?" Mrs. MacNamara asked. "Oh, Child, come inside; yer soakin'!"

The old woman led Líadan to a chair, where she collapsed, shivering, still clutching her soggy blanket. Mrs. MacNamara ran into the other room and returned with a towel, a nightgown, and a bathrobe. She helped Líadan shed her sodden pajamas, pulled the nightgown over her head, and wrapped the robe around her. Líadan sat staring into nothingness as Mrs. MacNamara ran the towel over her head, trying to dry her hair. She left for a minute to get a brush from the other room, and when she returned, Líadan's eyes were still blankly trained on the air. She parted the girl's hair and carefully brushed out the tangles. "What happened, Sweetheart?" She paused for a second, waiting for her to answer, but she didn't respond. "Líadan?" She reached down and turned the girl's face upward. Líadan finally looked at her.

"I couldn't stop it . . . memories . . . a man . . . I useda have nightmares about 'im . . . the boys . . ." Líadan started to cry, her mind frustrated with trying to piece together what had just happened.

"Shh. It's alright now, Child."

Líadan was finally able to get a hold of herself; Mrs. MacNamara helped her stand and led her to the spare room, where Líadan fell onto the bed, exhausted.

In the morning, Líadan sipped her coffee as she watched the news. "They've been dubbed the 'Saints of South Boston.' Two men, brothers, who were marked for execution by what have been identified as members of the Russian Mob, but fought back. The Russians were found dead in the street just yesterday morning, beaten with pieces of a broken toilet, pulled from its pipes in the Saints' fifth floor loft." Líadan shook her head.

"_Saints_? Ya obviously didn't grow up with 'em, Sally." She turned off the television set, thanked Mrs. MacNamara for breakfast, and headed back up to her own apartment to hang up her water-logged things to dry and change for work.

**Translations:**

**"Mo Chroí" Irish, term of endearment, "My Heart" (pronounced "ma kree")**

**"Titim gan éirí ort" Irish, curse, "May you fall without rising"**

**"Fáilte" Irish, "Welcome" (pronounced "FALL-cha")**


	4. There Was Two Shooters

--There Was Two Shooters--

--There Was Two Shooters--

"We found a tap of an outgoin' cawll made from one of ouah pay phones. Theahe's only one voice, but we don't know what language he's speakin', so naturally, I thawght 'a you."

"Naturally," Líadan replied, smiling. She sat down across the table--littered with papers and legal pads--from Duffy. He pushed the play button of the small tape recorder, and a man's voice began to speak. "Russian," she reported, staring blankly ahead as she discerned what the man was saying. "They'll be at the presidential suite, Room 701, Copley Plaza Hotel, 9 pm." When the man was finished, she looked at Duffy again. "I'd expect somethin' big if I were you."

"You'ah startin' ta sound like Greenly." Duffy was skeptical.

"Just a feeling," she admitted. "But be careful, alright?"

"How d'ya do that?" His skepticism turned to wonder.

"Translate? M' Ma insisted I be fluent in Gaelic, Latin, Italian, Russian, French, Spanish, and German. And then I learned Welsh fer fun." She mused for a second, remembering how she and Bridget would speak in Welsh to each other because the boys couldn't understand what they were saying.

"Sounds a little ovah zealous. But I was gonna ask if ya weah psychic," he smiled. She simply returned his smile coyly. "Alright, I'll let it be yoah secret fah now." Just then, Mitchell burst through the door.

"Sahrry, Detective, but we just got a cawll from the Copley Plaza Hotel. The maid just about had a heaht attack when she walked in awn a bunch 'a dead bawdies."

"How many?" Duffy asked, concerned.

"Not sure yet, Sir."

"Alright, I'll be right out; let Greenly and Dolly know." Mitchell nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

"Anythin' else fer me ta do while you go out and play?" Líadan asked, trying to hide her disappointment at being left behind.

"Ya wanna come?" he offered. "It's probably pretty gruesome, but I don't think any 'a the guys 'ould mind you taggin' alawng."

"Sure." She stood, pulled on her coat, and followed him out to his car.

Gruesome didn't describe what they found in Room 701. Someone had gotten blood-drunk. She walked carefully through the room, choosing each step as if it were life or death. She didn't want to ruin any potential evidence. She looked at each of the bodies, making a mental note. A new penny shined in each eye, almost making the men look alive. Greenly was on his phone with someone near the door. "701 . . . cahroneah's sayin' a few houahs ago . . . eight." _I counted nine_. Duffy watched her float through the room, marvelling at her calm. He knew she'd seen the ugly side of life here in Boston; he'd been the one there when Kevin brought her in bleeding and crying, barely able to tell him her name. He'd taken her to the hospital and stayed with her until they'd made him leave. But now, it was like she was speaking with the men, asking them what happened. She finally stopped in the middle of the room.

"Him." She looked at Duffy and pointed to the fat man on the floor. "He was important." He stood for a moment with his hand on her shoulder.

"Go stand over theah," he whispered as he heard Agent Smecker blow through the door. "This is a fuckin' slaughtah house."

"How many bodies, Greenly?" Smecker asked, clearly looking at the one in the corner opposite the room from Líadan, the one she knew Greenly had overlooked.

"Eight. Shit! I fahgot about that one, nine. Nine?"

"While Greenly's out gettin' coffee, anybody else want anything?"

"Shit." He quickly hurried out of the room, signing the clipboard held by the guard at the door. Smecker turned to Duffy again.

"So, Duffy, you got any theories to go with that tie?" Duffy shot Líadan a quick look, and she nodded at him.

"Look, fuck awll these other guys. This was theah target--the fag man."

"The _what_ man?" _Oh, Shane, you've done it now_.

"The _fat _man."

"Well, Freud was right. So you think they came for the _fag_ man, huh?" _So, Smecker is the type to just throw it back in your face._ "What do you base this upon?"

Duffy didn't falter; Líadan was proud of him. "He was the only one done right, double tap, back of the head."

"And the pennies?" Smecker asked.

"New hit-man wants to leave his mark," Duffy offered.

"That's a possibility." Líadan watched him walk along the edge of the couch like he was surveying the scene below; his peacock attitude suggested he was too good to walk on the ground with the rest of them. "Now you Irish cops are perkin' up. That's two sound theories in one day, neither of which deal with abnormally-sized men." _Geez, he just wasn't gonna let Greenly forget that one, was he? Does he do that with everyone?_ "Kinda makes me feel like Riverdancin'." He kicked his feet, poorly imitating an Irish jig. Líadan was a little offended; though Duffy had had his Freudian slip, you didn't see the other guys walking or talking like a fruitcake to make fun of Smecker. "Another possibility is that they were placed there with _religious_ intent."

Duffy was the first to catch on. "Okay, some cultures still put pennies in the eyes of the dead. Or Silver." _That's m' boy._

"The Italians, the Greeks," Smecker elaborated.

"Sicilians," Duffy added.

Not wanting to be left out, Dolly chimed in, "So, what's the symbology theah?"

"Symbology?" _Oh boy, here we go._ There was no way Smecker was going to let that slide. "Now what Duffy's relinquished his King Bonehead crown, I see we have an heir to the throne; I'm sure the word you were looking for was _symbolism_. What is the _symbolism_ there?" _Poor Dolly._ "Let me explain it to you: in Greek and Roman mythology, when you died, you'd have to pay the toll to Charon, the boatman who ferried you across to the Gates of Judgment. This made sure the dead came to atone for what they did during their lives, Detective Alapopskalius." _Well at least he knows his shit._

"Jesus, you're the only one that ever got that." Dolly was obviously surprised. _I didn't even know that was his name._

"Yeah, well, I'm an expert in nameology."

She watched the men in the center of the room examining the fat man. It disgusted her slightly to see Smecker touch the man's bloody wounds, and then his own head, demonstrating where the bullets had entered. She suddenly felt a pang shoot through her stomach. It threw her back to the wall. Had she not already been leaning against it, the force would have knocked the air from her lungs. As it was, the pain in her gut made it hard to breath. Her vision blurred and focused on the fat Russian. He quickly popped back up into a kneeling position, and his eyes became his eyes again. He was begging, spewing Russian phrases as though his killers were listening. Two hands, gloved in black, held guns to the back of his head, one right handed, one left.

Voices accompanied the hands, chanting a prayer--her family's favorite prayer--and it came to her like echoes in a tunnel. "Shepherds we shall be for Thee, my Lord, for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. And we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti." It suddenly sounded so dark, so vengeful. Tears streamed from her eyes as she heard the voices of her brothers, knowing now that this massacre had been their doing. Their words ended with two almost simultaneous blasts from the firearms. The Russian fell to the ground, sending another jolt through Líadan. And she heard the voice again, the voice of the man she didn't know.

_And I shall count thee among my favorite sheep, and you shall have the protection of all the angels in Heaven._

She finally sucked in a deep breath and cried out, her cheeks saturated and burning, her knees buckling beneath her weight. Duffy ripped the gloves from his hands and ran to her. He knelt and gathered her to him as she cried into his chest. "It's okay," he whispered. The other men were left speechless, looking at each other with defensive innocence. Líadan was finally able to get a hold of herself and, with Duffy's help, stood and wiped the tears from her face. A couple of deep breaths, and she was ready to face the rest of the room. The two detectives regarded her with only sympathy, but Smecker looked at her warily.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Líadan MacRory." She held out her hand to him, and he took it briefly. "I'm the unofficial translator fer the department."

"Líadan was helpin' me with a phone cawll when we heard about this. The guy in that cawll mentioned the Copley Plaza, so I brawght 'er just in case."

Smecker nodded but didn't seem entirely convinced. "So what was all that?"

"Líadan's twin sister was murdered a few months back, so she still has a little trouble with crime scenes sometimes," Duffy covered for her.

"That's what you were doing at the station the other day?" Smecker recognized.

"Aye, Sir."

"Russian?"

"Well, that day it was Italian, but today it was Russian, aye."

"You speak Italian _and_ Russian?"

"Fluently, among other things."

"I ran into a couple of guys the other day who speak Russian too."

"Are any of them here?" she asked, being a smart aleck.

"No; they were Irish, which was what made it seem unusual. Where did _you_ learn Russian?"

"School; Ma insisted I be cultured."

"Funny; that's just what they said. They had a different last name though; it must just be an Irish thing--to learn other languages." His tone was suggestive, and she knew he was pumping her for information.

"Ya talkin' 'bout the MacManus brothers?"

"How did you know?" He didn't seem all that surprised, and unbeknownst to him, rightly so.

"Everyone in Southie knows about the _Saints_," she countered. He looked a little disappointed. Under normal circumstances, she would have left it at that. But there was something different about this guy. And he had gotten the boys off on self defense, so maybe he wasn't all bad. "But they also happen to be m' older brothers." Everyone's eyes widened. Smecker looked at her expectantly, like she owed him an explanation. "When they were about two, Ma's husband left. Didn't tell anyone where he was goin' 'r why. Popular belief is that he was protectin' 'em. Anyway, Ma's not the type of woman to pine her life away after some _man_. And five years later, Bridget and I were born. Ma didn't feel right givin' us the same last name as the boys, nor did she want to let our biological father to claim us in any way. So she gave us 'er maiden name."

"Duffy, why didn't you tell me when the MacManus brothers were at the station?"

"I didn't know," Duffy answered stupified. "She nevah told me." He looked down at Líadan, but not with anger or frustration; he simply looked at her.

"I haven't been speakin' to 'em lately, Agent Smecker. They didn't come home fer our sister's funeral, and never apologized fer it. As close as our family was growin' up, that's not somethin' I can easily fergive without an explanation. In fact, if ya talk to 'em again, I'd rather ya not mention me."

"Alright." He didn't really understand, but he would respect her request.

"Besides, they always were the type to get in touch with us when they wanted to and not a moment sooner." She let out an unamused chuckle. "Y'know? We lived blocks away, and Bridge and I barely saw 'em."

"Well, since you're obviously willing to help us, is there a way I can get a hold of you if I need to?" he asked.

"I don't have a phone, but I work down at 'the Faerie Queen' five nights a week. You can find me there Tuesday through Saturday." Smecker nodded his thanks, then headed over to one of the photographers. Duffy wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the door.

"Do ya wanna go get somethin' ta eat?"

"Nah, thanks. I'll be fine. I just hafta get ta work," she responded, looking at her watch. "But come in later, and I'll buy ya a drink."


	5. Have a Drink With Us

--Have a Drink With Us--

--Have a Drink With Us--

Líadan balanced her tray on her left hand as she weaved through the tables and bodies in "the Faerie Queen." It was a typical night; all the regulars were there joking and chattering away. Though she didn't enjoy cigarettes herself, the smoke filling the room didn't bother her; as she'd told Smecker, she worked five nights a week, so her lungs and eyes were used to it. She stopped at a table, dropped off the shots she was carrying, and Brady promptly handed one back to her. "No, Brady, not ta-night," she objected.

"One shot, Lee." His expression begged her. _God, I hate those eyes._

"You're gonna get me in trouble."

"Brannon won't care," he assured. Líadan looked around quickly, and clinked the shot glass to Brady's.

"Slaínte." She threw back the shot and set the glass on the table upside down.

"Líadan!" Brannon called from the bar.

"Fuck." She glared briefly at Brady, and then headed back. But when she got there, Brannon was holding a phone receiver.

"It's yer Ma," he said, handing it to her. She accepted the phone and pulled the cord around the corner so that she could hear better.

"Ma?"

"How ya doin', Baby?" came her mother's raspy voice through the line.

"Oh, been better, been worse, y'know. How's Uncle Sibeal?"

"Still wants ya back; says he can't find a decent waitress since you girls left. But he pesters the poor girls so it's no wonder they can't do their job properly. How was yer St. Patty's?"

"Good; I made over a hundred in four hours."

"'Course ya did; yer pretty, and let's face it, Sweetheart, just like yer Uncle, those men only have one thing on their minds."

"Well, not anymore."

"Not anymore my green arse!"

"Ma," she started.

"Líadan, ya got m' eyes, Child. There's no way ya could by ugly, even _with_ that thing on yer face." Líadan shut up; she knew how stubborn her mother was, and she knew she wasn't going to win. "Have ya heard from those worthless brothers 'a yers?"

"Not really. Conner stopped by on St. Patty's, but he didn't really have anything ta say ta me. I think it was just habit from before . . ." she trailed off, knowing her mother would know the end of that sentence. "I haven't heard from Murph at all. I saw 'em at church, but ya know them; they didn't stay."

"So ya did go to church, then?"

"Aye, 'a course I did; m' mother raised me right."

"That's m' good girl." Líadan smiled; she could tell her mother had had a few . . . or a bottle. "Oh, I got yer brothers a good one the other day. Made 'em believe I shot m'self on account 'a them."

"Mother," Líadan chided. "Is it really necessary ta torture 'em like that?"

"Don't be mad at me now, Baby, I's just havin' a bit 'a fun."

"Well, I didn't say it wa'n't funny, now, did I?"

"Aye, it 'as funny. Should'a heard 'em, too, 'No, Ma! No!' Oh, 'twas a riot! Just about peed m'self laughin'!"

"Alright, Ma, good fer you. Listen, I gotta get back ta work, the boys are yellin' fer me out there."

"When are ya comin' home again?"

"Soon as I can, Mother. Ended up usin' most 'a the money Bridge 'n I'd saved up ta bring 'er home, so I had ta start over again."

"Alright, Baby, you go make lots 'a money then."

"Love ya, Ma."

"Love ya too, A Chuisle."

Líadan hung up the phone as Brady and the boys were starting to call her name.

"Alright, alright!" she yelled. "What d'ya want?!"

"Lee, Sweetheart, yer all I need." Brady stood up, knelt down in front of her and held her hand. "Marry me?"

"That's it," Líadan exclaimed. "I'm cuttin' you off, Boyo."

"Oh, don't say that," he whined.

"No," she argued. "You start proposin', that means yer done, remember?"

"I 'member no such thing."

"Brannon! Brady's ready ta pay his tab!" Brady heaved a deep sigh and hung his head. Then, he got to his feet, kissed her left cheek and headed up to Brannon at the bar.

"One 'a these days, she's gonna accept," Brannon laughed. "And then you'll be in big trouble."

Everyone turned to look as the door opened. Duffy walked in and looked around nervously. Conversations quieted; the crowd had never seen him before. "Shane!" Líadan called and pushed her way through the room. Talking and laughter resumed as if a toggle had been flipped; if Líadan knew this man, he would be accepted. "I didn't think ya were gonna make it," she smiled, and took his arm to lead him to the bar.

"Well, I had a few minutes befoah I had ta head home ta-night."

They reached the bar to find Brady still standing there, talking to Brannon. Líadan jumped up on a stool, and Duffy took a seat next to her. "Cheatin' on me already, I see," Brady sneered.

"Shut it, he's a friend," she shot back. "Brannon, can ya get him a beer, please?" Brannon nodded and uncapped a Guinness before setting it on the counter in front of Duffy. If he was a friend of Líadan, he would drink well here.

Brady looked at Líadan with a mischievous evil eye. "Brannon, Líadan had a shot while she was working ta-night."

"So?" Brannon returned and continued drying the wet glasses that had just come from the kitchen.

"So, she was drinkin' on the job."

"So, she works in a fuckin' bar; 'r haven't ya noticed?" Brannon argued. "Here, Love, have another." To make his point, he got out a shot glass, set it in front of her, and started to pour whiskey into it, but stopped halfway. "In fact, I'm gonna make ya a car bomb."

"Oh, fuck," Líadan breathed. Brannon finished filling the shot glass with Bailey's, then filled a glass with Guinness and set it next to the shot.

"Go ahead, Sweetheart." She stared down into the swirling brown contents of the shot glass.

"I hate being the brunt 'a yer arguments," she exclaimed. Then she dropped the shot glass into the beer and chugged. When it was empty, she slammed it down onto the bar and wiped her mouth; as per usual, she'd beaten the curdle. Duffy looked at her with wide eyes. "What?"

"I just neveah knew ya weah capable 'a somethin' like that." She scrunched her face at him, and then shook her head, laughing.

"I think yer just jealous."

"Jealous?"

"Aye, jealous. When was the last time ya did a car bomb?" He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, as if trying to remember.

"Oh, we got a virgin!" Brannon cried. He poured the same mix he had for Líadan and set in front of the man. Duffy looked uncertainly at Líadan.

"You drop the shot in the glass and drink it all before it curdles," she laughed.

"Curdles?" His expression turned to one of pure worry.

"Yeah, the Guinness makes the Bailey's curdle, and the point is ta get it all down 'fore that happens."

"But, do'n't it just cuhdle in yah stomach?"

"Probably," Líadan responded. "Never really thought about it." She shrugged, and nodded toward Duffy's drink. "Now are ya gonna drink that, or do I have ta do it for ya?"

Duffy took a deep breath, dropped his shot, and started drinking. He didn't even make it near to finishing before the chunks began forming. He gagged and sputtered, trying to drink the last of it. Between giggles, Líadan got him a towel. "That's sad," she added.

"What?" He was still coughing, trying to get the last of the curdles out of his throat.

"Ya live in Boston, and ya've never done an Irish car bomb before."

"I'm a straight beeah guy," he objected. She patted him on the back and headed around the bar with all the empty glasses to put them in the sink. As she rounded the bend, she caught sight of a Jamieson(r) bottle sitting on the counter. She stopped, suddenly paralyzed. The noise of the bar faded all at once, and another voice sounded in her mind. _D'ya know what I think is sick, Roc? It's decent men with loving families that go home everyday, they turn on the news, d'ya know what they see? The see rapists and murderers, and child molesters, and they're all getting out of prison_.

It was Conner, and Murphy quickly joined him.

_Mafiosos gettin' caught with twenty kilos gettin' out on bail same fuckin' day._

_And everywhere, everyone thinks the same thing. That someone should just go kill those mother fuckers._

_Kill 'em all . . . Admit it, even you've thought about it._

A gun shot sounded, jolting her back to reality. But it hadn't been a gun; one of the glasses had slipped from her hand and now lay in shards on the floor before her. She gasped, "Brannon, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, Love." He walked over and put a hand on her shoulder, leading her into the kitchen. She placed the other glasses in the sink and grabbed the broom. Brannon stood back and looked at her for a moment. She'd been having lapses like this since Bridget died, but lately they'd been getting worse; they were longer, and seemed to take her in more completely. She used to be able to keep pouring and serving drinks; her eyes would just look distant. Now, she wouldn't move or respond in any way until it was done with her. And, though her words were indistinct, she'd started mumbling through them. Líadan swept up her mess and went back to serving while Duffy finished his beer. On his way out, he stopped and kissed her left cheek.

"I'll see ya soon, Sweetheaht."

**Translations:**

**Slaínte--Irish, "Cheers" (pronounced "SLAWN-cha")**

**A Chuísle--Irish, "My Blood/My Pulse" (pronounced, "Ah QUEESH-la" not "Koosh-la" as might be the popular belief)**

**Boyo--a term of endearment/normalcy; like the equivalent of saying "guy"**


	6. That's Some Heavy Shit, Man

--That's Some Heavy Shit, Man--

--That's Some Heavy Shit, Man--

Líadan sat on the porch swing with Murphy, gently swaying back and forth. Her head rested on his shoulder, his right arm on her knee. Light poured over them, red and purple with the setting sun. Her left arm was looped beneath his right, and with her left index finger, she traced her initials, hidden among the knot-work of the Celtic cross tattooed on his forearm. "When are ya leavin'?" Her voice cracked as she held back tears.

"End 'a the week."

"D'ya have ta go?"

"We already got the tickets, Love. And, it's the only way to really help you and Bridge grow up."

"By leavin' us?"

"We tried teachin' ya ta be strong, but it just didn't take with Bridget. She leans on Conner too much."

"So, yer not leavin' me, yer leavin' Bridge?" she asked with a note of resentment.

"Kinda."

"I don't understand."

"I don't expect ya to, Mo Chroí."

"Ya have ta promise me yer gonna have a phone."

"Oh, aye; ya think Ma 'ould let us go if we hadn't already promised 'er that?"

"Fair enough," Líadan chuckled. Murphy leaned his head against his sister's.

"Besides, I don't think I could handle not bein' able ta talk to m' baby." Líadan smiled; that's what both the boys had called the girls since they were born. Each of the boys had claimed one, and it kept the girls from ever being jealous of each other; neither had to fight for the attention of her older brothers because she always had the attention of one.

"How'd ya pick me?"

"I didn't," Murphy laughed, remembering that day in the hospital. "_You_ picked _me_. Uncle Sibeal brought us ta the room, and the two 'a ya were in yer plastic bins they called bassinets next ta Ma's bed. After we kissed Ma, I went over ta look at ya, while Conner got 'er some more water. Bridget was asleep, but yer eyes were wide open, and ya were fussin' somethin' awful. Never did learn ta shut yer mouth."

"Hey," she objected. He laughed a little, then interlaced his fingers with hers as she lay her head back on his shoulder.

"Ya reached up a hand ta me, and when I gave ya m' finger, ya stopped cryin' and didn't wanna let go. When Conner got back, I said, 'Hey, Conner, come 'ere, this one likes ta grab,' and I pried m' finger loose. But ya wanted nothin' ta do with Conner. Ma said I could pick ya up if I sat down, and the minute I had ya, ya fell asleep. Conner wanted ta hold ya, but Ma told him, 'No.' Said she'd been trying ta get ya ta sleep fer hours. Ma said it made sense that ya were the fighter 'cause you'd come out first, and she knew right away ya'd be just like her. Bridget, on the other hand, 'ould be our lover; she'd be the soft one that we had ta watch over."

"Ya know that you two leavin' only means that I hafta watch out fer 'er."

He paused for a moment before answering, "I know. But it's time ya become more dependent on each other than on us."

"What if I miss ya too much?"

"I'm only a phone call away."

Líadan heard their mother calling . . . was it their mother?

"Líadan, Sweetheart!"

It was Mrs. MacNamara. Líadan was in her loft, beige paint pealing off the walls, revealing the peach beneath. She stared out into nothingness as the tea in her hand grew cold. The memory stung in her chest, but she stood up from the chair in which she was sitting--another of her garbage rescues--and went out to the fire escape. She leaned and hung her head over the side to see the old woman doing the same, only up toward her instead of down at the street. "There's a young man on the phone fer ya!" Líadan furrowed her brow for a second, not knowing who would call her here, and then shrugged and headed down the rickety stairs. She reached Mrs. MacNamara's landing, climbed in the window and picked up the phone that was lying on the table.

"Hello?"

"Mo Chroí, listen, I don't have long." Murphy's voice sucked the breath out of her almost immediately. "I wanted ta tell ya that we're probably gonna hafta leave the city. I can't tell ya where we're goin' 'cause I don't even know m'self. But I'll call ya again as soon as I can, and one 'a these days we'll be ta-gether again. I love you."

"I love you," she managed. With a click of the receiver, that was it. She stood trying to breathe. When she finally found air, a tear slid down her cheek. She'd said goodbye to her brother before, but never like this. The memory of what she'd seen at the Copley Plaza flashed in her mind; she'd known then that it was them. The voices in her head echoed.

_Destroy all that which is evil . . . _

_Whosoever shed man's blood . . ._

_Kill 'em all . . _.

"Líadan." Mrs. MacNamara stood with a hand on Líadan's shoulder.

"I need a drink."

"Sweetheart, it's one in the afternoon." Líadan didn't even look at the old woman; she just headed back out the window and down to the alley.

She heaved open the door to "the Faerie Queen" and headed up to the bar. Brannon came out from the kitchen. "What's wrong, Little One? Ya don't work 'til later." She blew past him and grabbed for a bottle of whiskey and started chugging. Brannon rushed over and grabbed the bottle from her. The look in his eyes was half wonder and half sympathy. "What happened?" Her breath became labored, and she broke. He set the bottle down and caught her before she hit the floor.

"He's gone . . . I . . ." was all that would come. He held her for a moment, then moved her to a stool and sat her down. He had to answer the phone screaming at him from the wall. Keeping a hand on her shoulder, he silenced it and said, "Faerie Queen . . . Aye . . . Can I ask why?" Brannon looked down at Líadan for a second and then answered, "Alright." She took the receiver from him, wiping her nose on her sleeve before placing it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Ms. MacRory? This is Agent Paul Smecker. Do you remember me?"

"Aye."

"There's something about your brothers' case that I'd like you to come clarify for me. It's nothing official, just some personal knowledge."

"Alright; I'll be there soon."

"Thank you so much."

"Bye." She hung up, gave Brannon one last hug, and headed back out the door.

Down at the station, she was greeted by several of the officers before she made it to the office Agent Smecker had taken over. She knocked on the open door jam, and he looked up from the paperwork he was doing. "Ms. MacRory, come in, please; have a seat." He indicated the chair in front of his desk.

"Líadan, Agent Smecker; my name is Líadan."

"Líadan," he smiled back as she sat. "There's something I'd like you to listen to, if you don't mind. It's a recorded conversation I had with your brothers. At one point, they started talking in other languages, and I'd like to know what they said. I understand that they're your brothers, and you wouldn't want to get them in trouble, so you don't have to tell me."

"Agent Smecker, let me tell you a quick story. When we 'ere kids back in Ireland, the boys useda get into all sorts 'a trouble. One day, they decided it'd be fun ta throw rotten food and eggs at the windows 'a this man who'd made 'em mad. Well, as you can imagine, the next day he was furious, and wanted the boys locked up. The local authorities knew that they were our brothers, so they took Bridge 'n me in first ta kind of lure 'em out. Once they found the boys, Conner 'n Murphy never backed us up that we hadn't even been there. And Bridge 'n I spent two weeks in jail. I love m' brothers. But I won't protect 'em, cuz they've gotten me in enough trouble already just bein' who they are."

"Fair enough." He pushed the "play" button, and her brothers started talking.

"Well, they're talkin' 'bout ya, Agent Smecker." She couldn't help but smile when she heard their subversive conversation. "All ya need ta know is that they respect ya. And believe me, with m' brothers, that means a lot."


	7. Evil Men, Dead Men

--Evil Men, Dead Men--

--Evil Men, Dead Men--

Líadan stopped for a moment up at the bar. She was getting ready to put in an order when her stomach seized on her. This time, she didn't see much, but she heard her brothers' voices chanting the prayer, followed by gunshots. Suddenly, she was looking through Conner's eyes. Down a peephole, she saw a face she'd never forget, a face she never wanted to see again; there sat the other man who'd held her arms while the third had killed her sister._ "I've been waitin' fer this asshole"_ Conner's voice sounded in her head. A few seconds later there were more gunshots, this time more erratic. When they stopped, she heard Conner's voice again. _"Forget it, Roc, it's a family prayer. Our father's father before 'im, so that's our shit."_ She sucked in a sharp breath and made it to Brannon. _Why would they be talking about the prayer?_

"Turn on the news fer me?" Brannon's brow wrinkled, but he changed the TV to channel 22 and turned up the volume. "Hey! Shut it a second!" she called out to the room. They objected, but quieted when she yelled, "I just want ta hear this bit!" She caught anchorwoman Sally McBride on location at the Lakeview Deli.

"These murders coupled with the suspected Mob-related killings that occurred at this local Boston Deli earlier this afternoon brings the death toll to six, just today. There's no doubt that all the victims have been criminals. Perhaps this explains why a public outcry to have these crimes stopped has not been heard."

"Thanks, Bran. Oh, and I need these fer Cary's table." She handed him the slip as the phone started ringing. "I got it." She picked up the receiver, covered her other ear and said, "Faerie Queen."

"Lee, is that you, Sweetheaht?"

"Aye, Shane. What can I do fer ya?"

"Nothin'; I just needed ta vent fer a minute. You seen the news at awll ta-day?"

"Just caught it; sounds like yer busy."

"Well, we got Smeckah mad at us, 'cause we didn't tell 'im about Lakeview. That's wheah we'ah headed now. He wants ta look the scene ovah, see if he can find any links."

"Alright, Shane, well, you take care now. Good luck, and let me know if ya need anythin'."

"Will do, Sweetheaht. You be caheful ta-night. Apparently, theah's some dangerous guys on the street."

"Somehow, I'm not worried," she laughed. "I'll talk ta ya later."

"'Night, Sweetheaht."

In the morning, she went back down to the station for some more translating. Duffy had called Mrs. MacNamara, who then roused Líadan from a fitful sleep, early that morning. He left her alone in the office while she worked. Like the night before, her gut spasmed. There was lot of shouting and gunfire. Her left arm screamed at her, and then her right thigh. She hadn't known pain like this since she'd had a knife point dragged down the side of her face. The vision let her go, and she shook it from her head. She knew, somehow, that her brothers were in pain. But she also knew that there was nothing she could do about it right now. She set back to her work and a few minutes later, Duffy burst into the room. "We got anothah big one, Sweetheaht, I gotta go."

"If I stay in the car, can I come?" She already knew what had happened. She was just hoping that they wouldn't find Conner's and Murphy's bodies; though, somewhere inside her she knew she would be able to feel it if they were dead. Duffy thought for a quick second, and looked around.

"Come on," he finally beckoned.

She rode in the front seat next to him, her right foot up on the dashboard and her elbow resting on her knee. He pulled the car up to the scene and put it in park, taking the keys with him when he got out. He joined Greenly, Dolly, and Smeckerout in front of the house. Her vision blurred again, taking her breath with it_. This is gonna hurt._ She saw the gray-haired man from her childhood nightmares standing in front of a car. He had a long black coat and a weird gun belt that held six holsters. Conner and Murphy stood behind another man--_was that Rocco?_--reached over his shoulders and started firing. _No! You can't beat him!_her own voice screamed in her mind. But it was too late. She was pulled back to the present, hearing Smecker scream, "It was a firefight!" Then he raised his pistol in the air and fired a shot. He started freaking out after going to check on blood samples. She instinctively dropped her head a little, trying to hide from his rage. He flailed and threw himself to the ground. _What is wrong with this guy?_ He seemed to have gained his composure again when he stood, perhaps finally realizing that he was acting like a child. Without warning, pain shot through her arm again, burning this time. A few minutes later, her thigh felt the same. She saw Murphy sitting behind Conner, holding a rag in his teeth. Someone she couldn't quite make out held an iron to Conner's leg, right where she felt the pain. Conner reached up behind his head and grabbed a hold of Murphy's hair, pulling his brother to him tightly. For a brief moment, her heart remembered what it was to have someone care for her like that. Her teeth remained clenched until it let go of her. Duffy came back to the car and got in. "Ya alright, Lee? Ya look a little wiped out."

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "I'm just glad I don't haftawork ta-night. Maybe I'll finally get some sleep." He smiled sympathetically at her, briefly touched her knee, then started the car and drove back to the station; Líadan still had some work to do on her translating.

Back at the precinct, Duffy left her alone in the office so that she could finish as quickly as possible. When she was done, she reread it to make sure it was understandable. Her eyes stopped, and she went over it again. _Is that really what I think it is?_She stood up, her eyes staying on the page. "Shane!" Duffy wasn't at his desk, so she started frantically running around the station trying to find him. Carrying the legal pad, she called his name and dodged the other officers. She finally found him when she burst into the office Smecker was using. "Shane! I think I found something!" She handed him the pad and pointed out the spot she had seen. He read it, then flipped through the rest of the pad of paper to find another set of dialog. He flipped back and forth several times before dropping the pad on the desk and wrapping his arms around Líadan. She stood dumbfounded as he planted a huge kiss on her cheek.

"It's finally enough ta get a wahrant," he smiled at her. A hand flew up to her mouth in disbelief, and Dolly and Greenly joined in the celebration, each taking his turn embracing her.

As the Detectives helped the District Attorney gather the evidence and piece it together to start mounting a case against Pappa Joe Yakavetta, Líadan lay down on the bench just outside the office. Beneath her head was her own coat, and Duffy's lay over her to keep her as warm as she would get in that station. A finger reached out and moved the hair away from the right side of her face. With her eyelids still closed, she said, "Ya think I could grow up with two older brothers and not know yer there, Shane?" She opened her eyes to find Smecker looking down at her and jumped a little.

"That's quite a scar you have there." She sat up and dropped her chin to make her hair fall back across that side of her face. "They're going to be a while in there, maybe even all night. You can probably go home and get some rest."

"Thanks, but I'm not stayin' to see what they find. I don't walk home after dark by m'self anymore. There's at least one of these guys still out there." She indicated her right cheek. "So I'm waitin' fer Shane ta take me home," she explained.

"Well, look, I'm gettin' outta here; I have some work to do at home. I could give you a ride somewhere."

"Thanks, but I'd rather stay here as long as I can. I don't have heat."

"Where do you live?"

"On 7th. It's technically an illegal loft on the third floor of the building."

"And you don't have heat?"

"Nope."

"In that case, do you wanna come crash on my couch for a little while? It's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it's better than this bench, I can tell you that much." She looked at him hard for a moment. She usually didn't trust men, but there was something about this one. He was a good man; she could feel it.

"Alright, thanks." He offered her a hand to her feet, then she put on her coat, dropped Duffy's off at his desk, and followed Smecker out to his car.

The minute she walked into his timeshare she knew she'd been right about the first time she'd seen him. There was no doubt about the fact that this man was a homosexual. It didn't bother her; it was just blatantly obvious by the way he lived. He got a sheet out of a linen closet to put over the sofa. Then he got out a pillow and blanket and made sure Líadan was comfortable.

While she slept in the other room, he pulled out the finger he'd found behind the bushes at the crime scene earlier that day. He hadn't told anyone about it; this was his case, and he didn't want to lose it to the locals if he didn't have to. He dipped the tip of the finger in ink and rolled it across a plain white sheet of paper, then scanned it into his computer. He linked the computer to the local AFIS database and began running the print. A few moments later, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System gave him a match: David Della Rocco, a known Yakavetta family numbers runner, according to the arrest report. He looked at the face first in curiosity, and then in recognition. That was the man who had passed him outside the station, bringing clothes to the MacManus brothers.

He ran into the other room where Líadan lay asleep on the couch. He didn't rouse her gently this time; he pushed on her shoulder, rolling her onto her back to look up at him towering over her. It startled her, and she threw up her hands to defend herself. "Who's David Della Rocco?!"

"What?" She was very groggy and didn't understand half of the words he said. Blinking, she pulled herself into a half-sitting position.

"Who is David Della Rocco?!" he repeated slower.

"Um . . ." She sat up all the way and closed her eyes, trying to think. He was obviously angry, and she didn't want to find out what happened if she didn't come up with some information. "The boys--um--a, a friend . . . Roc--Rocco. I only met him once when Bridge and I first moved out here; we went to McGinty's with 'em. Tall, long brown hair, beard . . . Italian, I think. I'm sorry; I don't know more." Her expression told him she was being entirely truthful; she had told him all she knew of the man.

"Just, answer one other question for me."

"Aye?"

"What are they doing?" He seemed almost exasperated.

"In our family, especially on the boys' father's side, we were taught that evil should be punished, and that indifference was unacceptable. Near as I can tell, the boys felt some sort of calling."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm afraid not," she admitted.

"You're uh," he shook his head absently, suddenly distracted. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like, Sweetheart." Then he grabbed his sport jacket and walked out the door. Líadan sat surprised for a minute. _Did he just call me _Sweetheart_?_

As Líadan lay down and fell back to sleep, Smecker found his way down the street and to an underground bar. He needed a drink . . . or seven.


	8. It's On Now

--It's On Now--

--It's On Now--

"Ya had to prove 'im wrong?" Bridget asked her brother as she cleaned the blood from his knuckles.

"What else 'as I s'poseda do, Mo Chroí?" Conner responded.

"Let it go," Líadan answered, irked, from across the room where she cleaned and disinfected Murphy's brow. "For once." The alcohol on the cotton ball stung, making Murphy wince. Líadan blew a gentle stream of air across it, and the pain went away. Murphy's eyes searched for his sister's. Her focus switched to his split lip, and she finally met his gaze.

"Don't be mad at me," he begged, barely audible.

"Bridge and I were there too," she whispered back. "We saw what happ'ned." She set down the wet cotton ball and took her brother's hand in her own. "Fer the first time in a while, ya were willin' to let this guy win. And that's not easy fer fighters like us," she smiled. "But Conner chose to throw a punch, and the both 'a ya were locked in ta finishin' it." She took a deep breath, and looked over at her twin sister, still cleaning her other brother's cuts. "I just hope they don't come back fer a rebuttal." Murphy stood and wrapped an arm around his baby sister.

The window in front of her faced East, so when the earliest streams of daylight came through, Líadan's eyes were bombarded by them. She woke suddenly from the dream of a memory and had the urge to go to church to pray for her brothers. Somewhere they were in pain, and though she couldn't be there to fix it, she would do what she'd been taught to believe would help them. She was a little disoriented when she hit the street; she'd briefly forgotten that she was still at Agent Smecker's timeshare, and she had no idea where he'd slept last night. The sun was up, but it was definitely still early in the day. The sidewalks and streets were nearly empty, making it easy for her to get her bearings. Her steps were quick--an internal sense of urgency overcoming her--as she headed down toward St. Michael's Catholic Parish. The enormous door was heavy, requiring the strength of both her arms to open it. She crossed herself with the holy water in the foyer and made her way into the chapel. Two steps in, she stopped. _Was that _Conner_ that just went into the confessional booth?_ Her knees nearly buckled when she realized that Murphy knelt in the end pew. "Murph?" Her voice was tentative, as though it didn't want to leave her throat. His eyes opened, and his head turned toward her. A look of disbelief plastered itself across his face as she rushed into his arms. Still kneeling there, he held her as tightly as he dared, not wanting to put too much strain on his left arm. "I miss you," she sputtered.

"I miss you too, Mo Chroí." He kissed the top of her head. "We're gonna hafta leave. There's some old guy after Rocco."

"I know, Murph; it's _him_."

"What?" He didn't understand the random comment.

"That man ya guys were shootin' at yesterday."

"How d'ya know about him?"

"He's the man I useda have nightmares about when I's little. D'ya remember?"

"Aye, but how d'ya know about yesterday?"

"I saw it."

He pulled back to look her in the eye. "What d'ya mean ya _saw_ it?"

"I saw everythin'; all of 'em: the hotel room full 'a Russians, the brothel, all the guys in that house yesterday. I saw you 'n Conner that night in the jail. It was like a dream, but . . ." Her gaze dropped, and she seemed thoroughly confused about the whole situation. "I felt it when ya got shot, and when ya burned 'em shut." She closed her eyes and begged him. "Please, Murphy, let that be the end of it. That man is dangerous; ya can't beat 'im." She lifted her chin and looked at him again. "Let's just get on a plane and go home while we still can. Be done with it."

"We can't, Love. Much as I might want to, it's not over yet." He pushed back the hair that hid her face and ran his thumb down her scar. "Look, we're planning on hitting Pappa Joe Yakavetta's house ta-night, and then headin' up ta New York ta lay low fer a while. I'll call ya, 'n ya can meet us up there, alright?"

She took a deep breath and nodded. That would have to do for now. "Alright."

"Now, ya hafta get outta here before anyone sees ya with me; I don't want ya hurt again on my account." He pulled her to him again and embraced her tightly. Then he kissed her, and she made her way reluctantly out the door. His jaw clenched; it killed him to watch her walk away. He turned back to his prayers, adding a quick one for Líadan, just as Smecker burst from the confessional booth. Conner and Rocco followed, so he stood and went to meet them. Without saying anything to either of the other two men, Conner stormed out the door.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways." Rocco put his arm around Murphy's shoulders. _Ain't that the truth_ ran through Murphy's mind, but he had no idea why Roc was thinking it.

"What the fuck 's that s'poseda mean?" was all he returned to his friend. He didn't want to let either of the others know about Líadan showing up just yet.

Smecker ambled wearily, the bright sun burning his eyes. His head felt like it was going to split in two. His belt began vibrating, and then it emitted a _BEEP BEEP_. He pulled his pager off its clip and squinted at it, trying to read the numbers. Looking to the left and to the right, he located a pay phone. Two quarters finally found their way into the slot, and he pushed the digits he saw on the small green-tinted screen. One ring, another, then someone picked up. "Hello?" There was a definite Irish accent to voice.

"Who's 'is?" he slurred.

"Who's _this_?" the voice accused back at him.

"_You_ paged _me_."

"Smecker?"

"Yeah . . . now who's this?" His head hurt, he was tired, and now he was getting annoyed.

"It's Conner MacManus." Smecker's eyes snapped open, and he shook his head, blinking off his hangover.

"What's going on Conner?"

"Just tryin' ta recuperate from yesterday. I assume ya saw the scene."

"Yeah. Hey, is there anything you can tell me about that? Who was shooting at you guys?"

"Um, he was a little taller than Murph and me, wearin' all black; he had six guns with 'im. We're pretty sure Pappa Joe hired him ta take out Rocco."

"That's all you can give me?"

"The light hit the side of his face. Looked like he had a gray beard, maybe late fifties, early sixties."

"So, you're telling me it was one guy with six guns, and he was a senior freakin' citizen?"

"Yeah, and it's better if we find this man before he finds us again."

"I'll see what I can do. How do I get in touch with you?"

"We'll hit Pappa Joe ta-night, right in the comfort of his own home. We're gonna move on ta New York; it's just . . . it's gettin' a bit hot fer us here."

"Be careful."

"Alright. Call ya ta-night afterwards." Smecker heard the _CLICK_ as Conner hung up the phone, and started back for his timeshare. The light started to bother his eyes again, and he nearly ran into Líadan . . . literally.

"There ya are," she exclaimed. "Ya left in a hurry last night 'n didn't come back. I's about ready ta go down ta the station ta see if any 'a the others had seen ya."

"I just got a call from your brother." Her smile disappeared.

"Which one?"

"Conner. Come on, I don't want to talk here." He led her back to the timeshare, and she sat down as he got himself a glass of water. Technically, it was two glasses; he'd downed the first one almost immediately after he'd poured it. He sat down in the chair across from her, took another drink, and set the glass on a coaster on the table between them. "He said they're going to Pappa Joe Yakavetta's house tonight, and then up to New York."

"Yeah, I know. I talked ta Murphy ta-day."

"Alright, well, I'm gonna go see what I can find out about this guy Yakavetta sent after them. Are you working tonight?"

"Aye."

"Okay; I'll drop you off at your place, to get whatever you need, and then I want you to stay at the bar so I know where you are. I'll get a hold of you there as soon as I get a chance." She nodded acquiescence, stood up, and put on her coat and shoes while he finished the water and grabbed his keys.

Líadan balanced a tray full of empty glasses on her left hand and carried two more in her right. She ducked beneath Brannon's outstretched arm as he held open the door to the kitchen. One by one, she unloaded them into sink, then spun the empty tray in her hands and started back for the floor. Before she reached the door, the breath escaped from her lungs, and her knees buckled. Her head was thrown to one side, like someone had punched her. Her body thrashed back and forth, taking hit after hit from the air. Dylan pushed open the door to find her flailing on her knees. He thought she might be having a seizure, and his first instinct was to leave her be, let her body ride it out. But then she looked straight at him and whispered, "Help me." Cautiously, he approached and managed to lift her without falling victim to a randomly flying limb. He carried her out the back door and set her down, sitting against the building. Her head lolled to the side for a minute, like she didn't have the strength to hold it up. It rolled forward on her neck, and she lifted it again. Her gaze was blank, like she was looking past him, rather than at him. "Roc!" she screamed at nothing. "Roc, look at me! Look at . . ." she was cut off by a gunshot sounding in her head, and she started freaking out. "God! No!" Dylan turned, trying to see what she saw, but there was nothing there. He touched her face briefly, then stood and ran for Brannon.

Inside, Dylan took over the bar while Brannon hurried to get to Líadan before she hurt herself. He carefully knelt down next to her. "Lee. Come on, Child, look at me." She was eerily calm at the moment.

Without warning, she started yelling, sobbing, "No!" Her body jerked as though her hands were tied and she was trying to get free. Brannon could do nothing but watch in horror as she suddenly screamed in pain, pulling her left wrist to her. For a moment, it looked like the vision had finally let her go; she started to stand, but she ended up on her knees. She closed her eyes, and bowed her head. "Shepherds we shall be, for Thee, m' Lord, for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand . . ." she stopped and turned suddenly, snapping her eyes open. As she moved, her right hand shot up as though she held a gun, her left still hanging limp at her side. Slowly she continued, a look of disbelief on her face. "That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. And we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomine Patri, et Filii, Spiritus Sancti." Her outstretched hand waved a cross in the air and dropped.

She sucked in a deep breath and shuddered as it escaped, pulling her arms in and holding herself. Brannon wrapped his arms around her, comforting her as he kept her from falling. It became too much for her mind to handle, and she started sobbing. "Are ya alright, Little One?"

"I don't know," she managed between hyper-ventilating breaths.

"D'ya wanna go ta a hospital 'r somethin'?"

"No." She pulled back and looked squarely at him. "I'm not crazy Brannon. I don't know why this is happ'nin', but I'm not crazy."

"Alright, Sweetheart; I never said ya were . . . never even thought it." His eyes sent pure sympathy down to her, and he pulled her against his chest again. "I'll have Caoimhe cover yer tables the rest 'a the night. D'ya want me ta take ya home?"

"No; I mean, if it's alright with you, I'd like ta stay here awhile."

"Sure, Sweetheart." He stood and helped her to her feet, steadying her as they re-entered the building. Brannon took his place at the bar helping Dylan again, and Líadan climbed onto a stool next to Cary.

"Ya look tired, Love," Cary mentioned. "Maybe ya should take a couple days off and rest."

"If only it'ere that simple."

"How d'ya mean?"

"It's not work; I'm worried about m' brothers."

"Mmm." He took another drink of his beer. "Well, it seems ta me, ya do a lot more worryin' 'bout them than they do 'bout you."

"Shut up and drink yer beer, Old Man," she laughed at him. Brannon set a glass of water in front of her.

"Or d'ya need somethin' a little stronger?" he asked.

"This is fine, Brannon, thanks."

Caoimhe approached and handed her a wad of bills. "This 'as left fer ya at table seven."

"D'ya need me ta do anythin'?" Líadan asked.

"No, Hun." Caoimhe kissed her friend on the cheek. "You sit fer a few minutes; ya deserve it." She smiled and headed off to tend her tables.


	9. And I Shall Count Thee Among My Favorite

--And I Shall Count Thee Among My Favorite Sheep--

--And I Shall Count Thee Among My Favorite Sheep--

It was dark as they pulled from the pavement onto the dirt road. Líadan sat in the back with Murphy, re-wrapping his wrist. "Ah! Careful!"

"It hasta be tight 'r it's not gonna do anythin'," Líadan insisted.

"She's right, Murphy." Murphy briefly caught his father's eyes in the rearview mirror and acquiesced to his little sister. She set the metal teeth in the skin-colored bandage to keep it closed; it had been wrapped as tightly as she dared around pieces of metal splint to hold Murphy's wrist in place, at least holding it until they could get him to a proper doctor that wouldn't call the police on them. They were both glad she'd gotten it finished before they hit the unpaved roads that loved to bounce riders at random intervals. Though the town that they lived in had asphalt, they were now taking backroads to get to it. The car slowed a little to offset the jostling of the passengers. Líadan blinked, holding her eyes closed for a few seconds every so often. Murphy nudged his sister with his elbow.

"When 'as the last time ya slept?"

"I'm fine," she countered.

"That's not what I asked."

She took a deep breath; Murphy would know if she tried to lie to him. "The night before I saw ya in the church."

"Líadan, that was two days ago," Conner exclaimed from the front passenger seat.

"I know, Conner," she snapped back.

"Not even on the plane?"

"I've just had a bit on m' mind lately, alright?"

"Close yer eyes, Dear." His voice was deep and smooth from the driver's seat, and it soothed the annoyance that Conner's comments had been forcing to rise in her. "We've got almost another hour until we get there." Líadan was surprised he still knew the way, but was too tired to pose the question aloud. She was done fighting for now. Murphy lifted his left arm, and she curled up, laying her head on his lap. Finally closing her eyes, it felt like only four seconds before he was rousing her again; they had reached their destination. She sat up groggily, and fumbled for the door handle. She poured from the Jeep like a gallon of milk held by a two year old. But a pair of strong, firm hands caught her before she tumbled over herself. "Are ya alright, Love?"

"Thanks," she nodded. She still didn't know what she should call him.

The light sitting high next to a screened white door had been left on. Though it was technically the "back" door, it still faced relatively toward the street, and just inside was the kitchen; the family rarely ever used the actual front door to the house unless it was to gain access to the front porch. It opened, and out stepped a large, tired-looking woman with firey hair, graying slightly at the edges.

"It's about fuckin' time. Where the hell have ya been?!" She rushed down the three stairs and quickly enveloped each of the boys, planting saliva-filled kisses on each of their cheeks, which they quickly wiped off when her face was turned. She made it to Líadan and held her longer than both of the boys combined. "I's beginnin' ta think I'd never see ya again."

"Oh, Ma."

"Are ya alright?"

"Is _she_ alright?" Murphy stood, astonished at the woman. He held up his wrist, as if to show her that he was the one who deserved attention.

"Aye, Mother," Líadan answered, neither of the women giving Murphy a second glance. "I'm just tired 's all."

"Hello, Annabelle," the voice said from behind Líadan. The childrens' mother looked up at her former husband.

"By rights I should drop ya where ya stand."

"Aye," he answered.

"I could do it too; I had ya declared dead so we'd get the money from the government. I had kids ta take care of, ya know. And I wasn't 'bout ta wait around fer yer worthless arse."

"I know." At that point, he figured he'd have to get back in the car and drive into town to find a place to stay. She continued staring him down and then ever so slightly softened just a tad.

"But ya brought m' children back ta me. So I s'pose I could find a place fer ya ta sleep." She led the way into the house, while Conner got the group's bags out of the trunk. He thought about how important family became when the possessions of four people could fit into two small duffel bags.

Inside, they all sat down at the kitchen table for a few minutes. Líadan was about to fall asleep again, so Murphy excused the both of them, and, with hugs and kisses to the rest of the people in the room, they headed back to the boys' bedroom. He wasn't even going to try to make her stay in her own bed tonight; she badly needed to sleep, and he didn't want to find out what kind of nightmares might be brought up while Bridget's bed was still in the girls' room. He pulled back the covers to his bed and helped her pull off her shoes before climbing in next to her. She laid her head on his chest, and he wrapped his good arm around her, staying on his back to keep the left wrist away from both of their bodies.

Conner entered a few minutes later; Líadan was long gone, but Murphy still lay awake, listening to the slow even rhythm of his sister's breath. His head popped up as his brother opened the door and snuck inside. "It's alright," Murphy assured him. "She's _out_." Conner nodded and moved to his own bed.

"Fuck, these seem small now."

"Aye, but they're still more comfortable than our mattresses in Boston."

Conner looked over Murphy at their sister sleeping. Then he lay down, turned his gaze to the ceiling, and let out a heavy sigh. "Ya think she'll ever fergive me, Murph?"

"Hard ta say. But fer starters, I don't think it's about fergivin' you; it's about fergivin' 'erself."

Conner heaved another sigh in response and allowed silence to settle over the room, luring both the twins to join their sister in sleep.

Annabelle pulled the bag from her tea and blew a stream of air over the top of the mug to cool it. She wasn't really sure what to say to the man who now sat across from her. It had been 25 years since he'd walked out the door, leaving her to care for two very active two-year-old boys. Her only help had been her brother Sibeal and Maureen and Barney Mullraney, the next door neighbors. Thank Heavens it was just the two of them then; if she'd have had to deal with all four of the kids, she'd have gone crazy. As it was, those brats stole any shred of beauty, dignity, and sanity she had, but Lord knew she loved them with everything she was.

He watched her, the mother of his children, the only love he'd ever known. Oh, how he wished he could've taken it back, could've stayed and told the Italians to find someone else to do their dirty work. Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. "She's beautiful, Annabelle."

"'Course she is; she'd just never believe ya if ya told 'er." She sighed. "She's too self-conscious 'a that scar." Her tea was finally cool enough to drink, and she took a few sips before continuing. "She's a fighter, that one. Since she 'as little it seemed like there 'as always somethin' didn't want 'er ta have any peace."

"Murphy 'as tellin' me 'bout 'er nightmares."

"Aye. He seemed ta be the only thing 'ould make 'em go away. Once a week at least."

"Did the other one ever have 'em?"

"Bridget? No; slept like a bear in winter, she did. Never a single nightmare; almost like Líadan took all the bad dreams fer the pair of 'em. At first I thought Líadan 'as colicky, but then it just didn't stop. They got even worse when the boys left fer Boston."

"Murphy said she'd told 'im they were 'bout me."

"What?"

"He said she'd dream 'bout a man killin' people, and then when I went after the boys, she told 'im that she recognized me as that man."

"You what?!" She set her cup down and moved like she was going to strangle him.

"I didn't know it 'as them, Annabelle, I swear. I's really there after their friend, Rocco, but someone else got to 'im first. And then I heard 'em sayin' the prayer over 'im when he died." Annabelle eased but was a little horrified that he'd almost killed his own sons. "Funny thing is, I useda dream about her too." Now she was confused. His eyes drifted to the nothingness of the room. "A little blond girl climbin' inta bed with Murphy, throwin' food at Conner, runnin' around after the boys out in the yard." He seemed confused himself. "Never saw the other one though. I don't know, maybe I'm just rememberin' it differently now that I've seen 'er." She stood up and put her cup in the sink. Then, without a word, headed into the other room and returned with a pillow and a blanket for him.

"Here; couch is still where it's always been." Though the words themselves sounded short and angry, she'd said them with a kind of acceptance; it was almost an invitation rather than a banishment. To be honest, he was surprised she'd even let him in the house.

Líadan woke to find herself alone. Voices drifted in from the other room as she pried herself from the warm bed that again held the comforting smell of her brother. She ran her fingers through her hair to straighten it and wiped the sleep from her eyes as she entered the kitchen; everyone else was already around the table with plates full of food. "There she is," Murphy smiled, calling attention to the rumpled girl. Her mother immediately approached her, spatula still in hand, and kissed her.

"Mornin', Baby."

"Mornin', Mother," she replied as she moved to pour herself a cup of coffee. After stirring in cream and sugar, she sat at her usual seat next to Murphy, across from Conner. Annabelle set down a plate in front of Líadan heaped with eggs, bacon and potatoes. The girl's eyes widened, knowing she'd never finish it all. "I may not've been eatin' well fer a while, Ma, but this is even too much fer one 'a the boys."

"Then just eat whatcha can, Love. I'm sure the boys won't mind finishin' it fer ya." Líadan didn't argue and set to eating.

"So, Murph," Conner addressed his brother, "What d'ya say ta takin' a ride inta town and meetin' this new waitress Uncle Sibeal's got workin' fer 'im?"

"Absolutely not," Líadan shot down through a mouthful. "I'm takin' 'im ta see Dr. Flannigan ta get that wrist set properly."

"Oh, come on, it's fine. He's not as broken as ya make 'im out ta be."

"Conner Fearghal, listen ta yer sister." Conner shot Líadan an angry glance; he didn't like being rebuked by his father like he was a child again.

"Ya keep makin' that face 'n it'll stick like that," Líadan sneered back. His expression got even uglier, so she threw one of her potato chunks at him, nailing him just below his left eye. Conner's jaw clenched, but Murphy cracked up with laughter. Annabelle turned from her place at the stove; she didn't have to see it to know what had happened.

"Líadan!"

"He started it!" she insisted, pointing across the table at her brother and trying to look innocent.

"And how old are ya?" She shook the spatula at her daughter.

"How old is he?!"

Annabelle glanced at the boys' father, as if for help, but all she saw was him hiding his smile by taking a sip of coffee. She shook her head and went back to finishing the last batch of bacon and cleaning up her mess. Líadan cleared as much of her plate as her stomach would hold, then passed it to Murphy.

"Can I help ya with the dishes, Ma?"

Annabelle turned to her daughter and sighed. "Thanks, Baby, but it's alright. You go get cleaned up and dressed."

The old man stood out on the porch with his mug of coffee looking out into the distance. He heard Líadan push open the screen door and join him. For a minute, he remained a stone sentinel, guarding the inhabitants of the house. He caught a brief look of wonder on her face as he turned to look her in the eyes. "It's a beautiful mornin'," he commented.

"Aye," she agreed, briefly looking at the landscape before shifting her gaze to her feet. "Um, I don't know what I should call ya." She seemed ashamed, and he just smiled in return.

"Our paths have been knit since the day ya were born, A Stór. And I'd be honored if ya'd call me 'Da'."

She smiled shyly back up at him and nodded. He nodded back, then kissed her forehead and dropped the car keys into her hand. "Now go take yer brother ta get that wrist fixed."

**Translations: Fearghal--Irish name, pronounced FAR-gal**


	10. Down at the Anvil

-Down at the Anvil-

-Down at the Anvil-

-Technically, a version 2.0, rewritten because this is how I really wanted Líadan and Conner to interact, and it has been nagging at me since I updated the chapter . . . so I _made_ time to fix it. Again: dedicated to dragonzfire and A Hotter Kiss, readers after my own heart. Love, Aoife-

Annabelle brushed her hair in the bathroom, readying herself to go out with the rest of the family. She hadn't been down to see her brother at the "Anvil" since the kids had come home. Líadan watched her mother briefly as she passed the open doorway. She couldn't imagine how the woman must be feeling. One of her children was dead; the other three were now home, but only because two were hiding from American authorities. And to make matters worse, she also had to house the man who'd left her on her own to raise his children, the man who'd vanished from her life without a trace. Líadan ducked out of view before Annabelle caught her, and headed toward the front door. Murphy was coming inside; his wrist had been properly cast for almost a month now. He dropped a kiss on her cheek before she headed out the door. Conner sat alone on the porch swing, a slight creak finding its way to Líadan's ears as he gently swayed back and forth.

Without asking permission, she sat down next to him. Seconds stretched into years as the awkwardness between them slapped them in the face. "I didn't mean it." Líadan's voice sounded strange to her own ears. Her brain took a minute to register that she'd even said the words. Conner now looked at her with sympathetic confusion. "When I said ya didn't miss 'er, I didn't mean it. I know ya miss 'er; probably more'n I do."

"Why won't ya let me apologize?"

"What good's it gonna do? She's gone. Nothin's gonna change that."

"That's not the point, Líadan."

"What _is_ the point?" She stood up and turned to face him, raising her voice. "You want to apologize and have me say that it's alright, that it wasn't yer fault? Well I can't do that, Conner. 'Cause the fact is, it _was_ yer fault! _You_ chose ta fight those guys! _You_ chose ta piss 'em off! _You_ weren't there ta walk us home that night! And _you_ ignored me when half my heart was ripped out and put through a meat grinder!"

He got up from the swing and lifted his arms in helplessness. "What do ya want from me, Líadan?!" His voice held nothing but anger.

"I want ya to not be so fuckin' _proud_!" she screamed. She reached out and pushed against his chest. It threw him back a step only because he hadn't been expecting it. He quickly recovered, but she wasn't done yet. The side of her fist flew into his ribs. "I want ya ta show me I'm not the only one broken without 'er!" Her fists helplessly pounded against his chest as tears began rolling from her eyes. He stood and took it, clenching his jaw. When her vision was too blurry to see properly, she swung once at the air. He caught her wrists and pulled her into a tight hug, holding her upright as much as he was embracing her.

"I meant ta call ya, I did," he whispered, his voice finally betraying the hurt inside him. "It just kept gettin' harder 'n harder. The more I didn't think about it, the easier it was ta pretend the two 'a ya were fine."

She stopped fighting him and buried her face in his neck. "I'm sorry, Conner."

"Fer what?" He gave a half laugh that told her he was trying not to cry himself.

"I couldn't protect 'er; I wa'n't strong enough."

"Oh, Sweetheart, no." He pulled his sister to him and held her tightly, an embrace that had once belonged to Bridget alone. "It wasn't yer fault. If anythin' it was mine; I shoulda been there ta walk ya home; I shoulda let it go ta begin with."

Murphy pulled his jacket on and grabbed his brother's. His hand reached for the door knob, but then he stopped, thinking about it for a second. He leaned over to look out the window, and the corner of his mouth crept up slightly. _Finally_.

Inside the "Anvil" was a typical busy night, crowded enough to make it hard to maneuver across the floor and noisy enough to make it hard to hear those around you. The live music didn't help the noise situation either. But, of course, Sibeal dropped what he was doing to meet his sister at the door. He was enthralled to see his niece and nephews home as well; however, his face fell as he saw the one man he never wanted to see again. "What the fuck d'ya think yer doin' 'ere?" Annabelle took her brother aside, not wanting a scene.

"It's alright, Sibeal."

"What d'ya mean 'it's alright?'"

"We've talked, and he brought the kids back, so I'm not gonna start anythin'. That's over 'n done with."

"But, Anna . . ."

"It's done, Sib." Sibeal knew better than to argue with his sister. The sharp tone in her voice meant trouble if he did. "Now go buy yer nephews a drink."

The family sat at a table while Sibeal flagged down the waitress. The red-haired girl grudgingly made her way over, dreading another smack on the ass from the old man. "Aislinn?" Líadan immediately recognized her old friend. Aislinn's face brightened, and she enveloped Líadan in a warm embrace.

"How are ya?!" Aislinn squealed. "I haven't talked ta ya in months." Both girls knew that the last time they'd spoken had been at Bridget's funeral, but Aislinn wouldn't mention it until Líadan did.

"I didn't know ya were workin' here," Líadan mentioned.

"Well, I wasn't the last time ya were home. Eithne left us fer the big city, went ta university. So I picked up 'er job here 'n finally got off that blasted farm. Cor, I hated those fuckin' chickens."

Líadan giggled. It surprised her family; it was the first time any of them had heard her laugh since her sister's death.

"So, how long ya stayin' fer this time?"

"Not really sure," Líadan answered. "Probably another month, though. We're basically here ta give Murph's wrist time ta heal."

"Oh!" Aislinn finally noticed Murphy's cast. With a sympathetic looked she asked, "Anythin' I can get ya, Love?"

"Besides m' heart back?" Líadan smacked her brother's shoulder.

"She's tryin' ta be nice, 'n ya hit on 'er? Ya don't think she fuckin' gets enough 'a that already?"

"It's alright, Líadan; I'm useda it."

"A round 'a uisca beatha, please, Ash," Sibeal spoke up.

"Sure, Sib." As the girl walked away, both of the boys watched her.

"D'ya see what I'm seein'?" Conner asked his brother, elbowing him. Murphy's eyes followed the path of his brothers'.

"Aye; she sure did grow up, didn't she?"

"Aye." Líadan closed her eyes for a second and sucked in a breath in disgust. Then without them noticing, she stood and approached the twins from behind. With a hand stealthily on either side, she simultaneously smacked them. Sibeal burst out laughing, and Annabelle had to stifle a smile herself.

"What?" Conner asked for both of them.

"First of all, she's too young fer ya. Second, she's already got a boyfriend looks ten times better'n you. Both 'a yas." She looked at Murphy too, to emphasize her point.

Because she knew her boss, Aislinn brought a shot glass for each member at the table, but instead of filling them, she simply included a full bottle of potato whiskey. They would no doubt finish this one and start at least two more. It wasn't like Sibeal would be charging his family anyway, so there was no need to portion it. She had other tables to tend, so as soon as she'd dropped it off, she took her leave of them. Somewhere in the middle of the third bottle, Líadan was finished. They'd be there for another few hours, which would give her enough time to sober up so at least someone would be able to drive. Not that they really needed to drive. The weather was getting warmer, and technically the "Anvil" was within walking distance.

As the time ticked by, Líadan's mother got more and more belligerent, and therefore, more and more hilarious to watch. Her brothers, on the other hand, got more and more annoying. Finally, Aislinn's shift was up, and she was free to hang out with her friend. She tapped Líadan on the shoulder, and the two girls weaved their way out the door to stand in the cool night air. Líadan had forgotten just how many stars there were here; Boston's sky never looked like this. The silence between the girls was comfortable, but Líadan knew that Bridget was on Aislinn's mind as well. So out of respect for her friend's sanity, she brought up the topic. "Ya know, it's funny. I still keep expectin' 'er ta come back from the bathroom."

"D'ya know how hard it's been fer the rest of us ta try 'n keep the books like Bridget did?" Aislinn laughed, trying to bring happiness to the memory of the girl. "Both 'a ya." She nudged Líadan with her elbow. "Ya spoiled the ol' man while ya were here, 'n now he doesn't know how ta do any of it himself anymore."

"She was always so good with numbers." Líadan couldn't help but laugh when she thought of her sister's favorite phrase. "She useda say, 'God gave me this cuz yer gonna need a manager one day.'" Aislinn smiled back at her friend.

"Alright, come on." She looped her arm through Líadan's and led the girl back inside and up to the bar. Then she poured each of them half a shot of poitín, and filled two separate glasses with Sprite(r). The girls raised their shots toward each other, holding the soda ready in the other hand. "To Bridget," Aislinn offered.

"Aye."

Their glasses clinked as each girl said, "Slaínte." Though one technically was not supposed to shoot poitín, they sucked down the soda after their half-shots to dilute the potato moonshine in their stomachs. The band had started a slower song, trying to help wind the people down for the night. An arm wrapped around Líadan's shoulders from behind, startling her; Aislinn's face had not given away the fact that someone was behind her. She could instantly tell that it was one of the boys, but she couldn't tell which one until his chin plopped onto her shoulder.

"How much have ya had?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm still fine; I haven't drunk nearly as much as th' others." She smiled as her brother kissed her cheek.

"Dance with me."

"What?"

"Mind if I steal 'er fer a bit?" he asked Aislinn.

"She's _yer_ sister," Aislinn conceded.

He pushed Líadan out to the open area in front of the band where a few other couples were drunkenly making themselves dizzy. He took her right hand in his left and placed his right on her back. She then laid her left hand on Conner's shoulder and looked him in the eye as he eased them into a turning motion. They locked eyes for a minute before Conner spoke. "Ya know, I always envied Murph." She shot him a confused look. "He never had ya watch out fer ya like I had ta keep track 'a Bridge."

"How d'ya mean?"

"You were always so self-sufficient; we never had ta worry about ya. If ya needed somethin', ya got it yerself; if someone was pickin' on ya, ya stopped it." He paused to let out a deep sigh. "Bridget always depended on us so much."

"Murph once told me that's why ya left fer Boston."

"In the beginnin', aye. We were plannin' on coming back after a couple years, but Bridge never seemed to start dependin' on herself. Then the two 'a ya moved out there with us."

"Is that why ya didn't talk to us much? Cuz ya were tryin' ta get 'er ta stop leanin' on ya?"

"Aye." He laughed a little as his mind strayed to thoughts of when the girls first came to Boston. "It killed Murph though, ta have ya so close 'n not see ya all the time." He pulled her a little closer, and she laid her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry we didn't talk ta ya more; especially those last few months."

"Funny ya should say that; cuz it was that last few months when she started spendin' time away from me."

"What? Seriously?"

"Seriously. She started datin' Dylan. They'd been goin' on half a year when she died."

"Hunh."

She couldn't help but laugh at the noise her brother made, which in turn, made him smile. "It's nice ta hear ya laughin' again." The song ended, and another started, so they stayed where they were. He pulled back from her a bit and asked, "Who's Dylan?" His suspicious tone amused her.

"Dylan's one of the bartenders at the 'Faerie Queen.'"

"Not the one I met when I was there the other day?"

"Nah, that's Brannon; he's the owner. Dylan just works fer 'im."

"So then, Bridget had a boyfriend; why didn't you?"

One corner of her mouth turned upwards. "That's nice ta think about, but we all know Bridget got all the looks."

"Excuse me if I don't believe that." They finished the rest of the song in silence.

Aislinn patiently waited for them to return; and they did, climbing up onto stools next to her at the bar. The three talked and laughed until the pub emptied; the only bodies left were staff and family. Annabelle steadied herself on her brother as they all stood, and the MacManuses got ready to leave. The boys' father, though he had drunk just as much as the others, showed no signs of it. He did, however, drop the keys into Líadan's hand before helping Annabelle and Murphy into the back seat. Líadan and Conner assisted their brother into his bed, and then Conner kissed Líadan's forehead before retiring himself. Obediently, Líadan made sure to give her mother a kiss before the woman passed out for the night. Her newly-dubbed father then walked her to her own bedroom. Outside the door, he pushed the hair away from her right cheek and lifted her chin with a finger. "Ya shouldn't hide yer face like that, Dear."

She didn't know what to say.

"This scar is nothin' ta be afraid of. Don't let it control ya." He sent her through the doorway with a kiss on the cheek, and made his way back to Annabelle's room. Líadan closed her door, and looked over at Bridget's bed. Then she went over to the mirror, picked up her brush, and pulled her hair back into a pony-tail for the first time in almost a year.

**Translations:**

**Aislinn Irish name, pronounced "ASH-lynn"**

**Eithne Irish name, pronounced "EN-ya"**

**"uisca beatha" Irish, potato whiskey, pronounced ISH-ka BA-ha ("water of life")**

**"poitín" Irish, potato moonshine, pronounced PA-cheen. Fun Fact: for many years, it was illegal to brew this kind of alcohol in Ireland, and it still is in the US.**


	11. Rule of Wrist

--Rule of Wrist--

--Rule of Wrist--

"Hey there, Boyo, don't even start with me, alright?" Murphy grudgingly gave the older woman a hug.

"Murphy Cathaoir," his mother scolded. "I thought I taught ya ta have more respect than that. Afterall, the woman helped me raise the two 'a ya ungrateful pissants."

Líadan came out of her bedroom to find everyone in the living room. "Mrs. Mullraney?" Unlike her brother, she rushed into the waiting arms of their next door neighbor.

"Oh, you've gotten so big."

"I's wonderin' why ya hadn't come over ta see us sooner," Líadan voiced.

"Well, Barney's not been farin' so good. We've been up at the hospital in Dublin tryin' ta get him better."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"He's just gettin' old, Love. He'll be sixty-two come October."

"Well, give 'im a kiss fer me?"

"Of couse, Dear," the woman smiled. "Now you get that brother 'a yers ta see the doctor, huh?" Líadan smiled back at her, kissed her mother, and headed out to the driveway.

Líadan hopped into the driver's side of the car and put the key in the ignition. Murphy climbed into the passenger seat, the two fastened their seat belts, and she put the car into reverse. "How come Conner didn't wanna come?" she asked her brother as she turned her head to watch the car backing out of the driveway.

"You know how he hates doctors; if he hadn't 'a been unconscious I'd've never gotten him in ta have a doctor look at _his_ wrists that time."

"Yeah, but it's only Dr. Flannigan. We've known 'im all our lives."

"Do'n't matter." Murphy didn't say anything more, and Líadan was willing to let it drop; there would just be some things about their brother that she would never understand_. I bet Bridget would've known why_. She turned her attention solely to the road ahead of them. It was a twenty minute drive to the doctor's office only because it was the exact opposite side of town from their house.

The door to the doctor's office opened as Líadan and Murphy sat in the waiting room. A cloud of sickly sweet perfume drifted through before the body it belonged to followed. The scent smelled vaguely like lilac mixed with some sort of citric fruit, and underneath everything, coconut reared its ugly face at her; it was almost enough to drive Líadan to vomit. She knew that smell, and she dreaded the young lady it preceded. Mary MacCracken, sister of Líadan's childhood tormentor Cormac MacCracken, walked through the doorway. She checked in at the receptionist's desk and turned to find a place to sit. Much to Líadan's dismay, she recognized her old schoolmate as quickly as Aislinn had. "Lee-dan!" she squealed. "I haven't seen ya since graduation!"

"There's a reason fer that," Líadan whispered without moving her lips, making Murphy smile. Mary sat down on Líadan's right, grabbed the girl's arm, and immediately started bubbling over like a pot left too long on the burner. Líadan only caught pieces here and there, but truth be told, she didn't really care.

"So what about you? What're ya doin' here?"

"Murphy's cast is comin' off ta-day. I just drove 'im."

He lifted his left hand and waved at Mary to show her. "What happened?" she gasped.

"Conner kicked a set 'a handcuffs off it so they could escape a mobster's house." Líadan spewed the knowledge willingly only because she knew Mary would never believe it.

"No, seriously, what happened?"

"What d'ya think happened?" Líadan asked it in such a way that suggested Mary should already know the answer.

"Another bar fight, huh? When're they gonna learn ta quit that?" As Líadan had hoped, Mary's mind immediately called upon the boys' known history for getting into fights when they drank.

Just then, Líadan made the mistake of scratching her right ear, which briefly pushed the hair back from her face. "Oh m' God!" Mary exclaimed. The girl overstepped her bounds and moved Líadan's hair aside to get a better look at the scar. Líadan's hand shot up, grabbing Mary's wrist, then she tilted her head forward to make the hair slide back to its original position.

"Don't do that again," she flared. Murphy's right hand reached for his sister's left, their tattoos melding into one long nonsense word.

"Who did that?"

"Bridget and I were attacked."

"Did Bridget get a scar too? That'd be horrible; she always was so pretty."

The physician's assistant opened the door and called Murphy's name, and the pair stood. Before heading toward her, Líadan turned and stated, "Bridget didn't survive. We set 'er ashes in the cemetery behind St. Catherine's if ya want ta see 'er." Still holding her brother's hand, she walked back to the exam room with him. After a few minutes, Dr. Flannigan entered.

He examined Murphy's wrist, making sure the cast was really ready to come off, and then called in the PA to take Murphy to the other room to remove it. "Líadan, I'd like ya ta stay here a second if ya don't mind."

"Sure."

Murphy dropped a kiss on Líadan's cheek and headed out. He followed the young lady down the hall a short distance and into another doorway. She had him sit on the examination bed and prepared a small tub of warm water and vinegar. Guiding his arm, she placed the cast into the solution. "Leave it there fer a while so it softens up. I'll be back in a minute." She turned and left, returning shortly with a tray of tools: a pair of cast cutters, a pair of bandage scissors, and a set of spreaders.

"That looks like a torture kit."

"Near enough if yer not careful," she admitted. "But if ya sit still, there's less of a chance of it hurting."

Dr. Flannigan pulled his stool up to the chair where Líadan was sitting and offered her a rubber band. She looked a little confused. "Can I take a look at that?" He pointed to his own face, indicating her scar. She acquiesced, pulling her hair back and turning so he could see it properly. "When did this happen?"

"Last March."

"Did it get stitches?"

"Aye."

"By whom? Dr. Frankenstein?"

"I don't know; it's a little fuzzy. Someone in the ER probably. I can call Shane later; he might remember."

"That's alright, Love. But if they'd been put in better, yer scar wouldn't be nearly as bad."

"Well, Doc, I assume whoever put 'em in was more concerned with savin' m' life than makin' it look good."

"Fair enough," he smiled. "I could give ya the number of a good plastic surgeon."

"Thanks, but I couldn't afford it." Though the boys had paid for her plane ticket, it had only been ten months since she'd last depleted her savings, amounting only to a few hundred after food, clothes, laundry, and bus fare to and from the Laundromat every week; she could probably save in laundry costs if she bought more underwear, but that would also require the time to get to the store.

"Or," he added with a sly smile, "I could give ya a few free samples 'a this scar treatment cream we got in the other day."

"Alright, sure." She didn't really think that it would fade the horrid mark on her face, but anything was worth a try.

"Y'know, it's really not that bad the way it is either, Sweetheart." He stood and took off his gloves, throwing them into a small can lined with an orange bag. "Ya shouldn't be ashamed of it. If anythin' it shows yer a survivor."

"Aye . . . at the expense 'a m' sister." She stood and exited the room to find Murphy coming back down the hall, his left hand no longer encased in plaster. "Thanks, Doc."

He nodded in response, but said nothing more. Líadan and Murphy made their way back to the receptionist's desk, paid the bill, and headed back out to the car. Murphy placed his left hand on his sister's shoulder as they walked.

"Eww. First thing when we get home, yer gonna wash that."

"What?"

"It smells like Mary's perfume."

Maybe it was being home, maybe it was her reconciliation with Conner, or maybe it was the fact that she now had a father who cared about her; whatever had seemed to awaken in Líadan the past couple of months, Murphy was eternally grateful that it had brought back her sense of humor.

**Translations:**

**Cathaoir--Irish name, pronounced "ka-HEER"**


	12. Amen, I Will Help Them

--Amen, I Will Help Them--

--Amen, I Will Help Them--

Líadan opened her eyes to a dark room, her room. It was a new experience for her; this marked the first time she'd woken in the middle of the night when it wasn't because of a bad dream. She slid out from underneath the covers, her bare feet hitting the soft carpet noiselessly. Five steps got her to the door, and she eased it open a crack, spilling light on the floor. Voices soon followed, hushed so as not to wake those who were asleep. "The trial; it'd be the best place ta hit 'im."

"Aye, but how do we get in? They don't just let ya walk inta a court room with guns." She knew immediately that her brothers were discussing Pappa Joe Yakavetta. _Damn, I'd hoped they'd given up on that_. She eased the door open farther and headed toward the living room. Her baggy pajama pants whispered against the hardwood floor of the hallway.

As she entered the living room, she realized that the voices had actually been coming from the kitchen. The boys and their father sat around the table, a beer in front of each of them.

"So let's hear yer ideas then," Murphy countered.

"I dunno," Conner responded. "Da, you've done this sort 'a thing before. What d'ya suggest?"

"Normally, I'd say the best place ta get 'im 'ould be his house, but he'll be expectin' that now. He'll not go anywhere without a guard."

"That's why I'm sayin' the trial's the best way ta get to 'im; he'll not see it comin'. Plus, it's sure ta be on TV; maybe we can send a message ta the scum 'a the Earth." _He's always so melodramatic._ They all sat silent for a minute sipping their beers and thinking. "What if we call that Agent Smecker? Maybe he'd help us."

"I'm sure he would, but I don't know how ta get a hold of 'im. I lost his card."

"Ya _lost_ it?"

"Aye, Murph, I lost it."

"Whadja do that fer?"

"Y' know, it's a little hard ta keep track of a tiny piece 'a paper when yer gettin' the shit kicked outta ya."

"I could help," Líadan spoke up, alerting the boys to her presence.

"I's wonderin' when ya were gonna say somethin'," their father smiled. _So he_ had _noticed me_.

"Did we wake ya, A Stór?" Conner was concerned, but he stayed where he sat. Murphy on the other hand, jumped up immediately, moved to embrace her, and brought her over to sit with him.

"I'd hoped the nightmares'd finally gone."

"It wasn't a nightmare," Líadan corrected. "I just woke up; I don't know why."

"What were ya sayin' earlier, Dear?" Líadan turned to look at their father.

"Ya were talkin' 'bout how ya couldn't get a hold 'a Smecker. But I can."

"Whadja mean?" Conner asked, interested.

"I could call Shane and get Smecker's number from 'im."

"Who's Shane?"

"Detective Duffy."

"How d'ya know his number?" Now Murphy was interested too.

"He 'n I were pretty close; I useda translate the Mafia phone calls fer 'im all the time. Plus," she swallowed hard, "he was there that night; he's the one took me ta the hospital." The boys looked a little astonished. Their sister had a connection to the cops all along. And on top of that, she hadn't turned them in, even while she was angry with them. Líadan looked at the clock. "It's not yet 10:00 over there; I could still call 'im ta-night. Ya might wanna think about askin' 'im ta help too; I'm sure he would--maybe even get Greenly and Dolly too." She glanced at Murphy, then looked to Conner. He matched her gaze and nodded, so she stood and moved for the phone. Her fingers trembled a little as she punched in the over-seas code, then the area code, then the number itself.

The phone rang three times before Duffy answered. "Duffy."

"Shane, it's Líadan."

"Hey, Lee! How ya been, Sweetheaht?"

"Oh not too bad, yerself?"

"Ya know, things ah a little hectic tryin' ta get the Yakavetta case ready fah trial."

"How's yer ma doin'?" Líadan wouldn't say another word until he used their appointed code to either give her the "all clear" or a warning that someone was listening to the conversation. Her question told him that she wanted to talk about a sensitive issue, and his answer would tell her whether or not she could speak freely.

"She's wondahful; ahthritis hasn't been too bad lately, so she's up and movin' around just fine."

"In that case, I have a favor ta ask ya."

"What's that, Sweetheaht?"

"I need ta get a hold 'a Smecker."

"Why would ya need ta do that?"

"Ya remember the cases where all the bad guys were gettin' killed?"

"Yeah; it's a shame whoevah was doin' that ain't around anymoah."

"Well, those were m' brothers."

"What?"

"It was m' brothers were doin' the killin', and Smecker was helpin' 'em by not givin' 'em up."

"That was 'the Saints'?"

"Aye. And we been back home fer a while ta let Murphy's wrist heal 'cause he broke it escapin' from Yakavetta's house a while back." She sighed deeply. "And now they wanna go after Yakvetta again; y'know, finish what they started. And we figured that the best person ta help 'ould be Smecker."

"He's gone back ta DC, but I can get ya his numbah, hang awn." He set the receiver down and retrieved the name card from his rotating phone directory. "Alright, ah ya ready?"

"Aye."

"Area code 202, 591-6584. D'ja get that?"

"6584."

"Yep."

"Thanks, Shane; I owe ya."

"Hey, Lee, y'know, if ya guys need anymoah help, just let me know." His voice suddenly quieted_. Someone must be walking past_. "Ya know the guys 'n I'd do anythin' foah ya."

"I appreciate it."

"You take caeh now, Sweetheaht. Love ya."

"Love you too, Shane. I'll call ya when I get back stateside."

"Bye."

She hung up the phone and held up the slip of paper in front of Conner. "D'ya wanna make the call, 'r should I?" He took the number and kissed Líadan's cheek. His fingers took their turn dialing the numbers as Líadan sat down next to Murphy and laid her head on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around her--a reflex built over the years--and the sat patiently as their brother fidgeted, listening to the ringing on the other end of the line.


	13. And You Will See We Three

--And You Will See We Three--

--And You Will See We Three--

Líadan sat staring through the grated window. It was a good thing she wasn't claustrophobic. She played with the focus of her eyes making the buildings grow fur and then quickly shed it again. Finally she turned back to the men who shared the small square space with her. A jail cell on wheels, the harsh metal cube echoed slightly with every movement. She leaned her head against Murphy's right shoulder and briefly closed her eyes breathing in deeply, the comforting scent of her big brother easing her nerves. Physically she wasn't going with them. But if their past ventures were any indication, she would be participating in this fiasco just the same. The plan was set; it had been since the day they all landed in America again. Greenly now stood outside the doors keeping a lookout for anyone who might be a witness to what they were doing. Duffy sat on Líadan's right; he would stay with her when the boys left. Facing her, Da was a gargoyle and Conner checked his gun several times more, a nervous habit that told Líadan he was just as anxious as she was. There was a quick rap on the doors. That was their cue. Da immediately shot through the door, followed by Conner. Murphy hesitated for a second to kiss Líadan's head and then leapt out after the other two, closing the doors behind him. With the _THWACK_ of the latch, Líadan's stomach disappeared. In its place, a thousand needles stung her, and she clenched her jaw against the eruption in her head. _Never shall innocent blood be shed_. Da's voice washed through, coating the inside of her skull against the fire. _But the blood of the wicked shall flow like a river. The three shall spread their blackened wings and be the vengeful striking hammer of God._ They were moving up a staircase now, and through a large set of double doors. Back in the van, Líadan seized nearly throwing her head into the steel wall behind her. But Duffy caught her and quickly pulled her to his chest, holding her tight. He couldn't see her face, but her eyes were glazed over, staring into oblivion. "You people have been chosen," her lips mumbled.

Smecker stood peeking through a crack in the door to the courtroom. The old man was announcing, "You will witness what happens here today, and you will tell of it later." The twins stood holding Pappa Joe Yakavetta on his knees with their guns to the back of his head. "All eyes to the front."

"Now is a good time to fucking . . ." Pappa Joe started.

But he was cut off by Murphy's right foot forcing him to the ground as Conner yelled, "Shut yer fuckin' mouth!" The old man's eyes scanned the crowd and found a young girl shuddering with fear. Her eyes were trained on the floor and holding back tears.

He took a few steps toward her. She stiffened as he reached out a hand, and with two fingers under her chin, gingerly lifted her face until her eyes met his. "You must watch, Dear. It'll all be over soon." _So the old man really does have a soft spot for women and kids, just like Augustus said_.

Greenly knocked on the window of the truck's cab and glanced at his watch. Dolly looked out at him from the driver's seat and nodded. The door screamed open, begging him not to participate in what was about to take place. But he ignored it and slammed it shut, heading for the building. Through the same door the Saints had used, he passed silently through the metal detector--which they had undoubtedly thrown their guns over--and down the hall. He climbed the stairs and found the signal. The old man's hat hung on the top banister of the large staircase. That told Dolly that they'd made it this far without being caught, and he was to continue with his task. He ducked his head down and continued walking past the double doors that held the Yakavetta trial. A little way farther down the hall he lifted his chin to make sure no one was looking, then he reached up and pulled the fire alarm.

As Dolly was disappearing into the courthouse, Greenly cracked one of the doors and hopped into the back with Duffy and Líadan. "Holy fuck!"

"She's okay," Duffy insisted, straining slightly as her muscles tensed, pitching her forward.

"Ahe ya shuah?"

"Yeah, just sit down." Greenly did as instructed on the bench across from the pair and reached for one of Líadan's hands, grasping it tightly.

"She looks like she's goin' all 'Exoahcist' awn us."

"Just give 'er a few minutes; she'll be fine."

"Now you will receive us," Líadan spoke, echoing the words from her mind and startling the two men watching over her. "We do not ask for your poor or your hungry. We do not want your tired and sick."

"It is your corrupt we claim." Murphy stood on the table reserved for the Defense lawyers.

On top of the Prosecution's table, Conner added, "It is your evil that will by sought by us."

Back and forth they continued, delivering their manifesto, their warning against falling onto the path of wickedness. And in the Police van out back, Líadan's voice reverberated it, confusing Duffy and Greenly. "And we will send you to whatever god you wish." Líadan's body made one final jerk, and then quieted. The men looked at each other, not knowing what to do.

"Is she done?" Greenly asked.

His answer came as Líadan began speaking again, this time remaining still. "Shepherds we shall be fer Thee m' Lord fer Thee . . ."

"Power hath descended forth from Thy hand that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. And we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be." Together, the three men cocked their guns.

"In nomine Patri," Da began.

"Et Filii," Conner continued.

"Et Spiritus Sancti," Murphy finished.

The three gunshots sounded almost simultaneously, sending a scream through the congregation. Smecker squeezed his eyes shut briefly, questioning his actions for a second. _Had he done the right thing in helping these men? They seemed so brutal_. But it only lasted a second as he reminded himself of all of the homicides and missing persons cases that would never be solved because they didn't have enough evidence to put Yakavetta behind bars.

The men fled the room, catching Smecker and following him out the back way to the van. Dolly, standing near the door saw his boys making their way towards him and ran out to start the truck. He thumped once on the back door to let Greenly know to open it, which he did, and then retreated back to the bench across from Duffy and Líadan. The young woman was tired, but she was conscious. As they escaped the building, Smecker jumped up into the passenger seat and the other three clambered up into the back. When he heard the doors shut, Dolly hit the gas, taking them along back roads and getting them all as far from the courthouse as he could.

A few hours later the MacManus clan stood in the parking lot outside the motel room that Smecker had provided for them. It wasn't much--two twin beds, a couple of chairs, and a bathroom--but it was enough to house them for the time being. Though she hadn't actually done much, Líadan was exhausted. Every muscle in her body had been strained for nearly a solid half hour, and now she could barely stay on her feet. She leaned heavily on Murphy as the group stood next to the van saying their goodbyes. Smecker handed a set of keys to the old man while Conner shook the hands of all the men who'd helped them; he held Duffy's hand just a little longer, making sure the man knew he was grateful for the life of his sister as well. Through a daze, Líadan hugged each of the men and promised Duffy she would call him whenever she eventually got settled. The police officers jumped back into the van and headed off into the night as the others made for the door of the building. Líadan's legs fumbled beneath her, almost sending her face-first into the pavement. But Murphy's quick reflexes caught her, and he lifted her off her feet. "Yer gonna hurt yerself," Líadan objected.

"Ya might be bigger than Bridget was, but yer not as overweight as ya think ya are."

They found their room easily, and Conner held the door open for Murphy as he carried their sister in and laid her down on one of the beds. She was already asleep. Da dropped the keys down on a small table and took off his coat. From it, he drew a cigar that had already been trimmed and lighter and sat down in the chair across the room from the door. His gaze fell to Líadan as he lit the end until it glowed. Murphy removed his jacket, draped it over his slumbering sister, and sat down on the bed next to her. It blocked his father's view of her, thereby bringing the old man out of his slight stupor. Conner followed his brother's example, shedding his coat and occupying a bed. He laid down on his back staring at the ceiling for a minute, the weight of what they'd just done finally beginning to soak into his brain. He sighed and lifted himself up onto an elbow. His eyes searched first for his younger sister, then his father. "How far are we gonna take this, Da?"

The old man pulled the cigar from his mouth and leaned forward. "The question is not how far. The question is, do you possess the constitution, the depth of faith, to go as far is as needed." Sitting back, he took another puff of the cigar, allowing his boys to contemplate his words. Murphy's eyes dropped to the girl passed out on his right. He ran a finger gently through her hair, pulling it around her ear to reveal the jagged thief of her beauty, her innocence, her self-worth. His jaw set. He would make sure that nothing like this would ever happen to another girl like Líadan again. He looked over at Conner and met his brother's eyes. A knowing look and a slight nod passed between them. They'd been called to this; it was their path, their "destiny" as much as the word could be applied.


	14. And On That Day, You Will Reap It

--And On That Day, You Will Reap It--

--And On That Day, You Will Reap It--

--To all those who've read this story faithfully, I humbly thank you. All my love, Aoife--

He knelt before them trembling. Blood oozed from his nose and split lip, causing a metallic taste on his tongue. He'd seen these men on the news. The anchor woman had said they were crazy--that they got off on killing bad people. He wasn't a bad person, was he? Okay, so he'd done some things his mother would be ashamed of him for, but it wasn't like he'd ever_ killed_ anyone . . . at least, he hadn't been the one holding the knife . . . that didn't count as killing someone . . . right?

The two younger ones held cold steel to the back of his head. The silencers attached to the ends ensured that no one more than fifty feet away would hear the shots. And there was no one around for miles. The old man in front of him was saying something cryptic--something about waving a flashing sword. What the hell was going on?

Like a screwdriver to his liver, a memory suddenly resurfaced as a young blond girl stepped out from the shadows. The old man stepped aside so that she was now standing right in front of him. As he looked up at her, his heart filled with more fear than he'd ever felt in his entire life. Slowly and deliberately, she ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it back into a pony tail and securing it with an elastic band. And there it was, staring him in the face. The uneven line that ran down the right side of her face served as the testament of his evil. There was no arguing his way out of this one. Blue flames seared her eyes as she held his gaze. He tried to spit out something, but his quaking lips and the blood in his mouth prevented it from being discernible.

The old man reached into his jacket and pulled out a third gun, smooth and unforgiving. He held it out to the girl, and she accepted it with her left hand, allowing her index finger to rest gently on the trigger. The word tattooed there made no sense to him, but to someone who could read Latin it might have seemed like a cruel joke. _Spes--Hope. _This man no longer had any. With a slight raise of her chin, she left his line of sight, and he soon felt a third spot of pressure on the back of his skull.

"Shepherds we shall be fer Thee, m' Lord, fer Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand, that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. And we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

When the man lay in a heap at their feet, Líadan handed the gun back to her father. She was finished.

They stood at the bus stop with her. She would catch it into the city, and then make her way to the airport. Líadan was going home for good this time. She knew that she would definitely see her brothers again in her dreams. Just as they had been called to punish the wicked, she had been called to watch over them. As for seeing them in person, she didn't know--only God knew that. The umbrella-shaped overhang protected her from the rain, but not from the tears. She knew it was for the best; she would only slow them down, put them in more danger of being caught. It was not her place to join them in anything but spirit. Her hair was tied back away from her face; she was no longer afraid. The small backpack she carried contained a couple of granola bars, a bottle of water, two plain black t-shirts--one of which had once belonged to Murphy for her to sleep in, her canvas sneakers, and a wallet with a little money and all of her identification.

Tires splashed water onto her feet, but her black boots were impervious to the attempt at making her any more uncomfortable than she already was. The door creaked open, bidding her to join the other passengers. Líadan turned to her father, who cupped her face in his hands and uttered, "Is é do mhac do mhac go bpósann sé ach is í d'iníon go bhfaighidh tú bás." She smiled weakly up at him, and he kissed her forehead. He released her to move on to Murphy, who immediately pulled her into a fierce embrace.

"I meant what I said before. No matter what, I'll always be with ya." He kissed the top of her head four times, and then let her go.

As she turned to Conner, she reached up to the back of her neck. With shaking hands, she somehow managed to undo the clasp that her fingers found there. She re-fastened the chain so that the charm it held wouldn't escape and gathered it in her palm. Then she held it out to him. There was no symbolic, movie-like pressing it into his hand; she simply dropped it into his waiting grasp. He closed his fist around it and usurped her into his arms. For a moment, she thought she might melt into him, he held her so tight. The driver of the bus honked his horn, irritated at the wait, so Conner relented. Murphy caught her hand one more time, and kissed her scar before the bus swallowed her.

It was fairly crowded, so Líadan had to take a seat along the aisle, pulling her bag off her shoulder and onto her lap. As the brakes released, she craned her neck to see out the window, trying to catch one last glimpse of her whole world setting sail for a land she could never know. The three men became a dark blur through the rain-spattered glass, so she turned back around and reclaimed her seat. She closed her eyes, freely allowing the salty rivers to course down her face.

Conner opened his hand, and his fingers found the clasp of the thin silver chain. He latched it around his neck, and the fingers of his left hand closed around the silver band hanging at the chain's end. Bridget's Claddagh had been a reminder to Líadan of the loss she had suffered, but to Conner, it was a reminder of why they were continuing their mission. He briefly looked at his brother and his father, who exchanged glances with him. Then with their eyes forward, the three Saints stepped off into the rain, unsure of where their feet would take them.

**Translations:**

**Is é do mhac do mhac go bpósann sé ach is í d'iníon go bhfaighidh tú bás--Irish, proverb, "Your son is your son until he marries, but your daughter is your daughter until you die."**


	15. You Must Watch, Dear

-You Must Watch, Dear-

-A response to the recent sequel; no idea if I'll continue the story when it comes out on dvd, but I'd like reactions to how this fits with it from all who've seen the movie. Big Thanks and Love, Aoife-

The sun set in a blaze of color, and the air was still warm as Líadan pulled the clothespins off the sheet that was hanging on the line and dropped them into a bucket at her feet. She carefully pulled the cloth down and folded it, laying it in the basket with the others. Her eyes fixed on the basket as she thought about how much time had passed, how many times she'd folded that sheet and placed it in that basket with the others. She had kept in touch with Shane Duffy over in America for a few years, translating things over the phone every now and then. She was still the best translator he'd ever had, and he hadn't been thrilled at the prospect of getting someone else to fill the position. He'd told her that Mrs. MacNamara had finally gone to be with her husband the year after Líadan went home. Her remaining worldly possessions had been donated to local charities--which Líadan knew was what the old woman would have wanted--and her body buried in the plot next to the man she'd spent most of her life with. Líadan eventually hoped to go back and visit the grave site as well as her old friends at the police station. She missed Dolly's quirks and Greenly's slow wit almost as much as she missed the companionship Duffy had provided. But time seemed to move faster than she realized, and before she knew it, eight years had gone by. It was an odd feeling, being the age her brothers were when they'd gone on their mission from God. She still had nightmares from time to time, but they were always old memories; she knew the boys hadn't killed anyone in quite a while. Every so often she caught the smell of sheep manure in her nostrils even though there were no sheep farms near the place where she and her mother lived.

A few wisps of her blond hair fell out of her ponytail and over her eyes as she bent over to pick up the basket. She lifted it expertly and rested it on one hip, pushing the hair to the side of her face and heading for the side door of the house. "Ma!" she called. "Laundry's in." When she didn't get a response, she knew the older woman must have gone to bed already. Setting the basket on the kitchen table, she opened the refrigerator and reached inside for the bottle of juice that was on the top shelf. Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed her in the left shoulder. She knew that pain all too well. It wasn't an old injury; it was a new one, a gun shot wound. But she hadn't been shot.

She set the juice bottle on the table just as her legs buckled beneath her. Another shot to each of her thighs just above her knees were almost unbearable. Something had happened . . . In her mind, she saw her brothers, much more haggard looking than their 35 years should have made them. The two dark-haired men were laying in hospital beds. They sat up and moved to the window, which looked out on a prison yard. _How could they be in prison?! _For years now, they'd been in hiding. She got the occasional nondescript letter from Murphy, telling her nothing about where they were or what they were doing, but it told her that they were alive and still loved her. And that was all she needed to know. Had the law finally found them? She didn't think it was possible. If they hadn't found anything after eight years, why would it be now? They hadn't killed anyone in quite some time. If they had, she would have known about it, would have _seen_ it. As the vision and pain let up, the phone began to ring. She shook her head and pulled herself to her feet to answer it.

"'Ello?"

"Lee, 's 'at you?" The voice on the other line was gravelly, tired sounding. Though she hadn't heard it in at least three years, she knew immediately who it was.

"Shane?"

"Yeah, Sweetheaht, it's me."

"How've ya been?"

"Well, 'til now, just fine."

"Whatcha mean 'til now?'" Her brow furrow in confusion and worry.

"Somethin's happened." She knew that already, but she held her tongue. "I'm afraid you might be in fah a shitstoahm heah soon."

"How dya mean?"

"Someone just killed a priest--two shawts through the head--and left 'im with pennies in 'is eyes."

Her mind raced. She knew exactly whose style of ritualistic killing that was. But they never killed men of the cloth; it was a part of their unwritten code of honor. Someone had to be trying to set them up. "No, Shane, et couldn't be them," she insisted.

"No, I know it wasn't them, Love. But it was done just like theiah's. Which means someone's cawllin' 'em out." He paused a second as though hesitant to continue. "But I know what they'ah capable of, and if they get word of it, you know they'ah gonna come. I'm just worried you might get caught in a crossfiah from across the ocean wheah none of us can help ya through it." No matter how old she got, he still saw himself as her guardian, and probably would until the day he died. And he knew that she saw what they saw, felt everything they felt as it happened. But he also didn't know she'd just seen what was probably the end of it. They would live, and that was enough.

"Ah, don't ya worry 'bout me, Shane; I've got people here ta look after me. Ya remember Brady from the 'Faerie Queen?' Well, turns out he really couldn't lev without me 'n' followed me out here. We've been married two years now."

"Congratulations, Sweetheaht."

"Wa'n't much of a ceremony weth neither of our families there, just m' ma and Uncle Sibeal."

"I'm glad you've got someone." She could hear the genuine happiness in his voice accompanied by a touch of sadness. Maybe he felt like her getting married would make it impossible for her to come visit him, or that it would mean she would forget about him.

"Ef ya don't mind, I'd like ta come see ya guys again soon."

"We'd love ta have ya, Lee."

"'Ey, Shane, dya know when m' brothers get out of prison?"

"What ah ya tawlkin' about, Sweetheaht; no one's heahd from the boys since that day in the couahtroom."

"Ya mean they haven't been shot at all recently?"

"Nawt that I know of. What would make ya think that?" Líadan pulled out one of the chairs and lowered herself onto it. _What is going on?_ She'd never seen something before it happened before. At least, not when it came to her brothers. It was always during or after the fact. "Lee?" Shane's voice came through the phone. "Lee, ah ya okay?"

"I'm fine, Shane," she finally managed. "I'll have ta call ya back, alright?"

"Alright, Sweetheaht, you take cahe now. We awll love ya.

"Love you too, Shane." She hung up the phone and sat staring into the distance trying to figure things out. Why would she have felt their wounds if they hadn't yet received them? She took a deep breath and jumped as someone knocked on the door, inadvertently squeaking. Her hand flew to her mouth to quell her surprise. Standing quickly, she moved to the kitchen door and opened it. She gasped again when she saw who it was. Her knees went weak, and she nearly collapsed into Murphy's arms.

He held her tightly, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of his no longer little, but still baby, sister. The sun-dried linen wafted into his nostrils, sending a wave of calm over him. He hadn't been sure if this was a good idea, but before he and Conner got on that boat to go back to America, he'd wanted to see her one more time. "God, look at ya." He pulled back and cradled her face in his hands. "Ya know how absolutely gorgeous ya are?" He ran his thumb down the scar on the right side of her face, indicating that it was a part of her beauty, the fact that she was able to carry it with such grace and still be breathtaking.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked back at him. God above, he looked so much older than he should. He was in excellent physical condition, but he looked tired, careworn. "Come inside," she breathed, opening the door wider. He stepped over the threshold and looked around the kitchen. Was it really so long ago that they sat together here as children eating family meals? The food she and Conner used to throw at each other, the stories, the nursed wounds, all of it was a lifetime away. From somewhere down the hall, a baby started crying. Murphy raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Who's that then?"

"Wait here," she smiled. Líadan disappeared around the corner and emerged with a sleepy-eyed, dark haired little boy on each hip. One of them was obviously who had making the ruckus, tears still streaming down his face. "I hope ya don't mind, we turned Conner's 'n yer room inta a nurs'ry." He lifted the one who hadn't been crying. "Noah Conner," she explained as he looked at her expectantly. She shifted the other one to her shoulder to comfort him, lightly patting his back. "And Brannon Murphy Sullivan." She gently swayed, rocking the fussy child. After he went quiet, she looked at her brother solemnly. "You two are goin' out again aren't ya?"

He patted the back of the young one that he held and nodded. "We can't let this one go, A Chroí."

"I thought so," she replied. "Help me put them back down." She tipped her head toward the living room and turned to walk to the hallway. He followed her silently. The child laid his head on Murphy's shoulder and gripped his shirt as though he wouldn't let the man go. Though he couldn't yet speak or even comprehend who this man was, he knew he didn't want him to leave. Murphy followed his sister back to the room he'd shared with his twin brother for eighteen years. The girls' room had been appropriately changed to accommodate Líadan and her new husband. He was glad they were here. These boys would grow up in a house full of love and memories, plus there was someone to watch over their mother. As Líadan laid Brannon back in his crib, she gently ran a finger down the side of his face. "He's a fighter," she whispered.

"Just like 'is ma," Murphy replied at the same volume.

"And the uncle who shares 'is name," she countered. She lifted Noah from her brother's arms and placed him in his own bed.

"So which one 'as first?"

"Not tellin'," she smiled. He smiled back and shook his head. She was too much like her mother.

"He takin' care 'a ya?" he asked, meaning the boys' father.

"I can take care 'a m'self," she shot back. "But aye."

"Good." Silently, the two headed back out into the kitchen, both instinctively avoiding the boards in the floor that were prone to creaking. She walked him out onto the porch, and he caught her up in his arms one more time. She buried her face in his neck, just like she used to when she was little. "Is aoibhinn liom thu, a chroí," he whispered.

"I love you too," she returned. "Give Da and Conner my love when ya see 'em."

He let her go and headed down the stairs of the porch. "You take care, Love. I know ya'll be watchin'." She nodded and watched her big brother walk down to the car at the end of the driveway. The engine started right away, and the vehicle took him away from her one more time. She swallowed hard and bit her bottom lip against the tears. She already knew their fate; she only hoped they would survive in the iron pen that would become their home.

**Translations:**

**"A Chroí" = Irish term of endearment, "My Heart"**

**"Is aoibhinn liom thu, a chroí" = Irish, "I love you, my heart"**


End file.
